


Things That Do Not Die

by Impractical Beekeeping (Impractical_Beekeeping)



Series: Songs of Expedience [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD is obsessed with M names, Blackmail, Blind Character, Case Fic, Multi, Not even remotely Series Three compliant, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s), Story: The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, The British Government is not happy with the British government, Tigers, it's like riding a bike for whom one has ambivalent feelings, military coverup, the imperfect art of deletion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 76,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impractical_Beekeeping/pseuds/Impractical%20Beekeeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Endings are a matter of perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhenISayFriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenISayFriend/gifts).



"Still with me?"

"Agh! Yes," John grits out, through blood-streaked teeth. "Just get it over with."

"I'm trying," Sherlock says, tearing at the cloth with a savage hand. This is one of the times when being gentle isn't the same as being kind. "It would help if you didn't grip my shoulder quite so hard."

"Trust me. Right now you really, _really_ do not want me to use your neck instead."

"Being strangled would not improve this, no. I need to see what I'm doing. Can you inch down a bit? With your hand, I mean. Obviously, the rest of you isn't going to manage it." Sherlock’s right arm is beginning to feel like electrified meat, possibly because John has got his hand clamped so hard over his shoulder joint. Losing motor function due to nerve impingement and fatigue would be bad. Losing hold of John would be catastrophically bad.

 _Catastrophically._ The syllables of the word drum through his mind, keeping time with the quiver of fatiguing muscle and the breaths hissed through his teeth at measured intervals. There are so many potentially catastrophic elements in this: gravity working against them, the unbalanced wobble of the jagged stone beneath Sherlock’s feet, the erratic slip and scrabble of John’s rain-numbed fingers down his arm.

Their downhill trajectory began with the arrival of an unexpected third intruder, and mistake bundled after mistake in a rapid and uncontrolled descent: the gun, the dog in the garden, the stone wall so inconveniently smoothed over with fresh lime render, and now (most pressingly) the razor wire. It's simply John's bad luck that the rain made him slip just as he was about to make it over the top. He’d caught the leg of his jeans, just above the knee, and now he’s bleeding from a number of minor lacerations. It's only his grip on Sherlock that prevents him from doing further damage to his leg, or worse, his torso. 

The dog had given them up as bad job some time ago. Sherlock isn’t sure whether that’s the result of John shouting and kicking at it repeatedly, or a simple lack of commitment. It had sounded like a brazen-tongued hellhound when they’d erupted out into the back garden, but in retrospect, they’d evaded it with suspicious ease. At the time, rational evaluation was superseded by the impulse to run, to climb, to get away from the dark, surging shape of the beast. No one said the word _Baskerville_ , but it’s obvious that that was precisely what had etched the pathways of panic into their brains. 

"Not much of a guard dog, after all," Sherlock remarks, although regret is a waste of time and foresight irretrievable. "Next time, let’s try not to panic."

"Next time?" John asks. “I’m not sure there’s going to be a _next time.”_ His hand is situated lower now, each individual finger bruising into Sherlock’s arm in a way that is very nearly focussing.

"This wasn't part of the plan, you know."

"Oh, was there a plan?" John spits, very carefully, over the wall. "I'm failing to see that at the moment."

"Of course there was a plan," Sherlock says, keeping his voice as conversational as his clenched jaw will allow. He’s sawing through denim with his pocket knife, and it is becoming duller by the second. Cheap Pakistani steel. "Unfortunately, nothing spoils a good plan like an unexpected gun. This isn't America. We have laws."

 _"I_ have a gun," John reminds him.

"Yes. You left it at home, so well done there. Try not to twitch. I'm nearly through it."

"My leg or the fabric?"

"Very funny. I think you'd know the difference. When I say the word, can you heave yourself towards me?"

"What word?" John’s easy tone is completely inconsistent with the tremors Sherlock feels running through the thigh he holds pinned against the stone.

 _"Please?"_ Sherlock suggests, glancing up at his friend.

John's face is ashen and wet with rain. Fresh beads of blood keep welling up on his lower lip, bitten when he hit the wall the first time he leaped and failed to clear it. He runs his tongue over it briefly, then spits again. "I'll try. Probably flatten you, though."

"I think that's inevitable," Sherlock agrees. "This rock I'm stood on isn't very stable, and I'll be pulling you forward. Let's aim to the left. There's some shrubbery."

"My left or yours?"

Sherlock delicately pulls the curl of wire away from the shredded mass of denim, two gloved fingers pinching between the barbs. "Yours."

"All right. I'll try."

He wraps his right hand around John's waist, pushes up the wire with his left, and says, "Now."

They launch themselves off into the hedge with surprising accuracy. It lessens their impact, but scratches their arms and faces along the way. Mostly Sherlock’s, because he is taller, and as expected, he takes the brunt of their fall. John pushes at his chest, gasps something that might be three different profane words smashed together, and rolls away into the mud.  This leaves Sherlock to peel himself out of the prickly branches _(Taxus baccata)_ that have so helpfully twined themselves into his new, possibly ruined, woollen scarf. At least he wasn’t strangled.

He glances over at John, who is bent double, hands braced against his thighs.  "How bad is it?” 

"Not very. I'm glad I believe in immunisations, though." John straightens, and looks up, sadly, at his jacket, still draped over the wall. "Think I'll leave that where it is for now."

"Seems wise," Sherlock agrees. His own coat lies reproachfully wadded in the mud where he’d flung it blindly in advance of their frantic efforts to scale the wall. Throwing it had been a mistake. If he had thought things through properly, they’d have used its considerable surface area to shield them from the wire, rather than relying on John’s jacket. The Belstaff is a good coat, but coats can be replaced. Legs, or more importantly, the people they are attached to, cannot. 

"So, that woman...I suppose she's long gone," John says, abruptly.

"Yes. I heard her car."

"Well. No chance we'll catch her, then. Cab or tube?"

Sherlock looks pointedly at John's shredded trouser leg and only slightly less shredded leg. "Cab. If you can manage the walk back to civilisation."

John shoots him an incredulous glance. "Don’t be an idiot. It’s still attached. Oh, and I think most people  _do_  consider Hampstead Heath part of civilisation."

Sherlock starts to say something about  _certain people who choose to live—_ but he stops himself. Instead, he considers the woman with the gun. Her air of certainty, her unwavering focus, her hand and arm position. He can think of at least three possible explanations.

They carefully pick their way through more hedges and a surprising amount of mud, to emerge at last on the heath, where they'd begun their misadventure well over an hour ago.  

"John," Sherlock says, after they've been walking (or limping) down the path for precisely two and a half minutes of companionable silence. The rain is falling harder now.

"What?"

"It wasn’t just the computer. Someone searched the house quite thoroughly before our arrival." 

"That’s odd."

Sherlock nods, which has the effect of running rivulets of water off his hair and into his eyes. He fights the impulse to sneeze. "They tidied up afterwards, but the signs are unmistakable."

"But according to the ex, he left for Edinburgh on Tuesday. That's an awful lot of burglary in two days, if you include us _and_ the mystery woman."

"Well. No one likes a blackmailer."

John laughs at this, but then frowns almost immediately afterwards.

Sherlock looks at him. It’s hard to tell how much he’s bleeding when his jeans are dark with rain. "Do you need to stop?"

"Hmm?" John blinks, water beaded on his pale eyelashes, and follows Sherlock's pointed stare back to his own leg. "God, no. I can hardly feel anything at all in this cold. The faster we get out of it, the better."

They press onward, a little faster now, aiming for the nearest cafe. They can see lights, warm and golden, up ahead.

Later, when the cabbie looks aghast at John's leg and their scratched faces, Sherlock says, "It's all right. He's a doctor." This would ordinarily result in a certain amount of inappropriate laughter, but now it yields only a modest snort from John. 

They clamber awkwardly into the cab and huddle silent and shivering together, shoulder pressed to sodden shoulder like soldiers in a trench. It’s a long ride home to Baker Street. 

* * *

John is in the shower now, trying to return his body temperature to an acceptable level. His hands and feet feel like they’re burning under the water, but it's only warm.

He isn’t thinking about that, though. He isn’t thinking about the day’s adventure, or even the state of his leg. He’s thinking about a tiger. 

He has reason. A carved and painted figurine appeared, quite without warning, on his bedside table two days ago. It was clearly Sherlock’s doing, but when John asked him about it, he had been evasive.

"It was a thank-you gift. Addressed to me, but intended for you."

"Thank you for what?" 

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said, dismissively, returning his attention to the book in his hand. Before John could ask any further questions, before he could even _articulate_ any questions worth asking, the matter was shelved by Mrs. Hudson telling them they had a visitor. A client.

Hers wasn’t, on the face of it, a very interesting case. John suspects the old Sherlock would have rated it a three at best, but if he’s still using a ranking system, he hasn’t mentioned it recently. The client, Helen Milverton, was being blackmailed by her ex-husband, and rather than risk taking it to the police, she had come to them. “It isn’t only me,” she said, “or I would.”

“We’re not vandals,” John protested, once she’d explained what she wanted them to do to her former husband’s computer. “We work _with_ the police.”

Sherlock waved this off immediately. “Never mind _that._ Are you sure he hasn’t got the data squirrelled away somewhere else? If there’s a backup, wiping one hard drive isn’t going to do much good.”

Working out the details of their foray into housebreaking removed the tiger from John’s thoughts for the rest of the day. At night, though, he looked into the small snarling face beside his alarm clock and vowed to raise the subject with Sherlock as soon as possible.

Now, in the shower, as he scrubs at his reddening arms and winces at the soapy water running over the cuts on his leg, he reviews his recent suspicions.

While he’d been trapped on the wall, John had tried to occupy his mind with something, _anything_ , other than the wire slicing into his leg or the knife in Sherlock’s hand. His thoughts had turned to Helen Milverton, and her insistence that Charles Milverton’s collection of nasty little secrets wasn’t just a simple matter of incriminating photographs snapped on a mobile. 

This reminds him of another occasion, another on which incriminating photographs had been the least of their worries. Something about that memory, when viewed in conjunction with the tiger, raises some interesting questions.

John doesn’t pretend to share Sherlock’s powers of observation, but he’s learned quite a bit about the science of deduction. He doesn’t immediately discount the improbable anymore; certainly not when the pieces all line up so neatly. Of course they do. John had been _intended_ to see them. Intended, possibly, to prompt a confession of sorts.

Freshly clothed, his towel draped around his neck, John emerges into the sitting room. Sherlock looks up from his mobile, and nods towards the chipped mug resting beside John’s chair. “Tea.” 

"Thanks," John says, feeling slightly derailed by the considerate gesture. He has got to stay focussed. "Sherlock. There's something I’ve been wanting to ask you about."

"You're not the only one." Sherlock folds himself into his chair. "I've had a text from Lestrade asking me what I know about a mysterious raincoat left on a garden wall in Hampstead."

"Oh god. That was fast.”

"Apparently, there's surveillance footage of two men approaching and entering the very house said garden is attached to."

"Milverton’s house was being watched by Homicide and Serious Crime? Why, was there a murder?"

"Unfortunately, no. It seems someone in another division thought we looked familiar. Or to be precise, that someone asked our dear DI why Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were breaking into the suspect’s home."

"What did you tell him?" John asks, trying not to envision his own arrest.

"I told him I had no idea what he was talking about."

"I can't imagine that will hold him off for very long."

"Probably not, no. I believe your raincoat still says ‘Watson’ in the collar.” Sherlock shoves his mobile into his dressing gown pocket. "You've got a question, though." He tilts his head inquiringly.

"Ah. Yes." John clears his throat and states, simply, "The tiger."

"Oh, that." 

"Yes, that. You said someone sent it to you, but that it was intended for me. _Who_  sent it?"

"Someone who was glad to see Moran dead. Obviously."

John snorts. "Yeah, okay. I got that. I didn't press you for the complete answer, but I should have. So. Narrow it down a bit."

"The note wasn't signed." Sherlock says, studying his own cup of tea as if it's fascinating. John knows it isn't.

"It didn't need to be, though, did it?"

"No."

"Well?" John has learned, through long experience, that staring at his flatmate without blinking can occasionally produce results. He does so now.

Sherlock stares back, trying for blankness. John offers him a pleasant smile, and takes a sip of tea.

"A former confederate of Moriarty's," Sherlock says, at last.

John nods. "One who is neither dead nor in prison. That narrows the field. What's her name?"

Sherlock’s eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. _"Her_  name—that's impressive, John."

"I noticed a faint perfume smell. Which, ah, generally, is not something I associate with anything in my room. So. Inexplicable tiger, wearing perfume. Sent by a woman, then. Why won't you tell me her name?"

Sherlock sighs, and after a moment's grudging silence, he says it. "Not a woman, John.  _The_  Woman."

John suppresses the hysterical laugh bubbling up inside him. "Now that  _is_ strange."

"Because she's supposed to be dead?" Sherlock asks.

"No. Because just now, when you said that, I had an incredibly strong urge to punch you in the face. I'm not going to," he adds, when Sherlock looks as if he’s assuming a defensive posture.

"That's a shame. Might be easier than an explanation."

"Appropriate, though, if we're talking about Irene Adler."

Sherlock flicks a cautious glance at John's face. "Yes."

"What is _also_  extremely interesting to me is that you seem to think I believed her to be dead. Why would you think that?” John asks, pleasantly. 

Sherlock starts, almost imperceptibly. "Oh."

"Yes, _oh._ I told you she was alive and in America, if you'll recall.  Does Mycroft know she's alive?"

"Of course."

"Did he know that over a year ago? Because he told me to lie to you. Told me that she was, in fact, _actually dead,_ and that I should tell you she wasn't." John licks at the broken skin on his lip. "I'm not fond of telling lies."

"I know. You’re not very good at it." 

"So, what? You knew I thought I was lying when I told you she was fine?" John asks, incredulous. "And you didn't say anything?"

"Of course I knew. I was instrumental in preventing her death.”  

"Were you." 

Sherlock turns the cup in his hands. "You appear to find that distressing. Why?"

"Never mind that. What exactly did  _instrumental_  entail?"

"Must we have this conversation now?" Sherlock asks.

“Yes. You’re not getting out of it like that. You’re the one who put the tiger in my room.”

"Fine. What made you believe she was dead? Were you shown any evidence?"

"Your brother said it was Al Quaeda. That they killed her. I didn’t ask to see a photo."

"It wasn’t Al Quaeda, but she did run afoul of a terrorist organisation in Karachi. I got her out." Sherlock shrugs.

"You _got her out._ How? Mycroft seemed awfully certain she was dead. How did you manage to slip that past him?"

"I didn’t. Not for long."

"Long enough, apparently. So, what? You took a flight to  _Pakistan,_ stormed the enemy stronghold, and stopped an axe with your bare hands?"

Sherlock laughs. "Don't be ridiculous. It was a sword. Although, it  _is_  funny that you say that..."

"Oh? I'm afraid I'm failing to see the humour in this, Sherlock."

"Irene thought that was what I  _had_  done. Ridiculous, really. They’d drugged her, of course."

"But you did go to Pakistan. When?”

"God, no. I know a man...well. No need to go into all of that.” Sherlock clears his throat. “I never even left the flat.  I orchestrated the entire thing over Skype. You were at work."

"I see." Naturally, Sherlock would have to be blithe about all of this, as if any of John's potential objections were unreasonable and silly. 

"It wasn't terribly challenging," Sherlock continues, as if that is, in any way, reassuring. "I don’t see what you have to be angry about."

"Well. Leaving aside the lies—actually, no. Leaving aside your _stupidity_ for getting involved, on any level, with a terrorist organisation—"

"All of which happened in the distant past—"

"—it is, frankly, disturbing to hear that you've been in contact with Irene fucking _Adler_ all this time. After everything she did!"

"Not _much_ contact. We don’t have frequent conversations. I did consult her when I was mopping up after Moriarty.”

"Oh, well, _that's_ fine, then," John says.

"You're being sarcastic."

"Yes, I bloody well am!" John presses his hands against his eyes and breathes deeply. “I’m still coming to terms with you faking your own death. Now you’re telling me you were chatting away to Mata Hari’s evil sister while the rest of us thought you were dead. Do you two have a private club for dead people now?”

"You don't trust her," Sherlock ventures, after an uncomfortably long pause.

"Good deduction," John says, and he’s calmer. "No. I don't. She's not a very nice person."

"Nor am I, yet you seem not to mind  _that_  very much. What about her is so uniquely awful?"

"Apart from the obvious? The lies. The manipulation. She drugged you and stole your coat the day we met.”

“She gave it back.”

“Yes, by breaking into our flat. And that was only the beginning! What about the rest?”

“She played a dangerous game, and she lost. It’s over, John. I don’t see why it matters.”

“But you’re what, _friends_ now? After she used you? After she...” John swallows, before he can say _after she broke your heart._

“After she what?” Sherlock asks, and looks, if anything, slightly puzzled.

John sighs. "Look, I was worried sick about you. When she—when she died, that first time." He clears his throat. "I thought you might have been a bit in love with her, to be honest.”

Sherlock stares at him now as if he's just said something monumentally stupid. "What? Why would you think  _that?_  Because she's reasonably intelligent? Because she's subjectively attractive? Because she's good with a whip? What?"

John gapes back at him. “You weren’t? That’s not what it looked like to me.”

"I found her fascinating, but that's not the same thing; certainly not as you mean it. After all,  _you_  find me fascinating. That doesn't mean you're in love with me.”

John's face moves through an impressive series of spasms in short order. "Ah. No," he manages. He wonders, not for the first time, how much of a certain conversation Sherlock had overheard. 

"Right then," Sherlock says. "Exactly. Are we finished?"

"So, fine. Good. You're not in love with her. That's...reassuring. I'd just thought—well. She seemed very keen.”

"Sex was never part of the equation," Sherlock says. “No danger there.”

“No danger? For god's sake, when we met her, she was naked."

"That seems to have left quite an impression.”

“I’m fairly sure that was the point.”

“That was a demonstration of power, but not the sort you think. She wanted to confound me. I’ll admit, I came up blank at first."

"Because being naked left you nothing to deduce?"

"On the contrary. Her hair. Her cosmetics. Her perfume. Her voice. All of it was calculated to add up to the wrong sum. Artfully, I must say. That was what intrigued me. It was so beautifully done."

"It never occurred to you that she was trying to seduce you?"

"Not in the sense you mean. It was a challenge. It told me she thought she was good enough to deceive anyone—or, indeed, me—without resorting to the usual trappings. It was a joke, in a way, about her ability to hide in plain sight."

"Right then. What about the flirting? The constant texting? She threatened to _flog_ you."

"Theatrical, wasn't it? A caricature of the dominatrix." Sherlock smiles faintly, as if in fond remembrance. "It was just a performance, John."

John shakes his head, vehemently. "That was more than a performance.” 

Sherlock frowns slightly. "And what if it was? It makes no difference to me. What I fail to see is why it matters to _you.”_

“I don’t like predatory people getting off with my friends.” 

“That’s never going to happen.”

"Really."

"Yes, really."

John coughs. "Well. In all the time I've known you, you've never actually said."

"Said what?"

"You've never...expressed any preference."

"My  _preference,_ if you're referring to sex again, is to avoid the entire mess altogether. That should render any further classification unnecessary."

"Right." John shakes his head. "I know. Your work is more important than human relationships. See, to me, that doesn't seem healthy."

Sherlock snorts. "Forgive me if I'm disinclined to take your opinion to heart. You've had a dizzying array of girlfriends in the time I've known you, and you can barely remember any of their names. Is that what you’d call _healthy?”_

"I've never had a chance," John protests. "You always sabotaged my dates."

"I'm not an inexorable force, John. You’re very good at asserting yourself when it matters. No, your dates were brief diversions, at best."

John can't argue with this, if he thinks about it. Not convincingly. He isn’t any good at maintaining relationships with women. But unlike Sherlock, he doesn't reject the concept out of hand. "Never mind my dating CV. What about you? I find it concerning that you’ve rejected such a basic human need. People do need to be loved. They need companionship."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Why must that have anything to do with sex? I have an annoying brother, a few tolerable friends, and one exceptional friend. Anything more than that exceeds my requirements."

John, exceptional friend that he is, lets it rest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texting, terrors, and teatime interrogation.

Eventually, John goes up to bed. Sherlock waits for the clatter of the pipes signifying that water has been run upstairs, a shuffle of footsteps, the rattle of pills in a bottle, and the small, solid sound of a closing drawer. 

After an agonising five minute display of self-control, Sherlock picks up his phone. 

_Enjoying Crete? You should stay there._

He doesn’t sign it with his initials, but waits, watching the blinking cursor. It doesn’t take long. 

**No. I’m tired of hats and suncream and sad stray dogs.**

_Pity. Knossos would suit you._

**I don’t care for ruins much.**

_Of course not. You’d rather destroy things yourself._

There’s a pause before the answer arrives. 

**Didn’t he like it, then?**

_No._

**You didn’t have to give it to him.**

_I don’t have to do anything._

**Did you tell him I sent it?**

_He worked it out. He isn’t stupid._

**From you, that’s practically a love heart.**

Sherlock scrapes his teeth together.

_How is Kate?_

**My, you’re transparent when you’re angry.**

_I’m not angry._

**So you had an awkward conversation. Poor you.**

_He despises you._

**After all this time? I’m flattered.**  

_He thinks you're trying to corrupt me. I set him straight._

**Oh, my dear. That’s immensely funny.**

_Is it?_

**Very.**

_I think we're finished here._

**Are we? You need to talk to someone you don’t have to lie to.**

_What makes you think I'm telling lies?_

**Lies by omission are still lies.**  

_When did you start delivering lectures on morality?_

**Does telling someone he’s a bad, bad man count?**

_Not when you’ve been paid to do it._

**Sometimes I can be persuaded to do it for free. Would you like that?**

_Not interested._

**Why not? I owe you.**

It’s an unfortunate turn of phrase. 

Sherlock thinks of apples and fairy stories and falling from a great height. He exhales, slowly, before he manages his reply.

_Yes. You do. So stay out of London._

**Or what?**

_I remind my brother you exist._

**I’m an investment. You saved my life.**  

_Yet you're still shamming dead._

**I recommend it highly. Tax bills, old lovers, men with guns: all is erased.**

_Is it?_

**Near enough.**   **So**   **he forgave you, then?**

_Who?_

**You know who. Must have been quite a shock.**

_Yes._

**Still at Baker Street?**

_He’s loyal._  

**Rather than obsessive?**

_Why would you say that?_

**It’s one of the first words that comes to mind. He makes a lovely little satellite, doesn’t he?**

_Don’t be absurd._

**Poor thing.**

_He doesn’t need your pity._

**Doesn't he? Always trailing after you like a lost dog.**

_Rubbish. He does what he likes._

**Does he? Or does he simply do whatever you tell him?**

_I’m aware of your professional biases. Don’t attribute them to me._

**I don’t have to.**

_If he isn’t happy, he’s free to leave at any time._

**I do hope you haven’t expressed it to him in those terms. It’s bad form.**

_I didn't ask for your opinion._

**I’ve got to repay my debt somehow. You’ve made it clear you won’t accept the usual currency.**

_In the unlikely event that I need your advice, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, kindly go to hell._

There is no sigh as the answering text arrives several minutes later, but he remembers exactly how it used to sound.

**How about Paris? It’s closer.**

**We could have dinner.**

* * *

John wakes in the middle of the night, feeling as if he has fallen from a great height. That, or he’s been punched in the chest. 

Or shot.

It’s not the sort of thing that can be forgotten: the invisible hand slamming him down into the hot earth, shrouding him in dust, stealing his breath. Shock waves of pain after the blast.

Years have passed since he was shot in the shoulder, and while the memory doesn’t recur as often as it used to, it still pops up in his dreams like an unwanted song on a relentless, hateful jukebox. Now it appears in rotation with Sherlock falling. If he’s extremely unlucky, he combines the two things: he shoots, and Sherlock falls. 

That, too, is a memory, albeit a more recent one. John hadn't shot him; he had shot someone else. Sherlock fell then, too. John remembers the cold horror he felt before he was certain that he hadn't got it wrong. He remembers Sherlock lying crumpled beneath the broken window. He remembers the blood on his face. One fall becomes another, and John wakes, lying paralysed in his own cold sweat, waiting for a reassuring and definitive sound—proof that he is not alone—from the rooms below. A crash, the sound of pacing feet, the wail of a violin: anything will do.

Tonight, Sherlock’s playing actual, recognisable music, and John is grateful.

He hates it that he can never be sure if he’s been screaming. Sometimes his throat is raw, but that’s not enough to prove anything.

What it does prove is that there’s another perfectly good reason why he sleeps alone. It isn’t that Sherlock sabotages his dates. He was right about that.

No, it’s that John doesn’t want to explain the nightmares. 

Here, he doesn’t have to. 

* * *

It’s a lovely room, if a bit old-fashioned in its decor. Early afternoon sunlight streams in through crisp white curtains, glinting off the gold-rimmed china tea service laid out before the two men.

“It really is astounding what one can manage with voice recognition software these days,” Mycroft Holmes says, pouring out a cup of tea. “Although, as I understand it, flawless diction is an absolute necessity.” He takes a sugar lump from the bowl with silver tongs, and drops it carefully into Charles Milverton’s cup.

The other man says nothing, but accepts the tea with his left hand. His right is gloved expensively in black kidskin, and rests neatly on his thigh.

“You’ve been awfully prolific, Charles,” Mycroft continues, smoothly. “I can’t say I care for your choice of subject matter, but your output is impressive.” 

“You’ve read my books?” 

Mycroft offers him a modest smile. “Did I convey the impression I was referring to your fiction? How unfortunate. No. I was referring to your predilection for blackmail.”

He doesn’t really expect a verbal response to this. Charles Milverton returns his gaze with limpid brown eyes, seemingly untroubled by the accusation. 

“Perhaps I should mention that our little meeting is unmonitored by the police,” Mycroft continues. “You might as well be frank. It saves time.”

“Perhaps you’d better tell me why I’m here, then. I assume it’s nothing to do with fond reminiscences of our school days.”

“Regrettably, no. What I am interested in, Charles, is your timing.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“I should explain. You see, several years ago, you augmented your income with blackmail. Your targets were carefully chosen, so you managed not to call much attention to yourself. Then, rather abruptly, you voluntarily restricted yourself to a more legitimate trade. Some people might consider this evidence of your reform, but recent events indicate otherwise.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Milverton begins, but Mycroft cuts him off with a raised hand.

“Please. Don’t insult either of us by pretending you’ve nothing to do with Lady Blackwell’s recent suicide. In this day and age, the connection is easily proved. Despite what you think, you’ve left a considerable electronic trail, and I have every confidence the police will make full use of that. As I say, it’s your timing that interests me. Why start up again after years of inactivity? This is hardly the first time you’ve experienced a financial setback.”

Milverton’s downwards glance is fleeting, but it’s telling enough. 

“Just as I thought. It is said that a man can be judged by the quality of his enemies. You should be proud. Yours were nothing short of extraordinary. I say were, of course, because two of them died rather recently, didn’t they?”

“If you know who they were, then you also know they’ll not be missed.”  

“No, indeed,” Mycroft agrees. “They will not. Suppose you begin by describing what happened to your right hand. I understand your NHS records are a bit hazy on that point.”

The other man pushes his cup and saucer aside. He removes the glove from his right hand and displays it against the linen table cloth. It would be a perfectly ordinary human hand, were it not for the way each finger terminates abruptly at the distal interphalangeal joint. “I should think it’s obvious. He took my fingertips off.”

“And neatly done, it was, too,” Mycroft remarks, surveying the smooth scar tissue without affect. “Very...surgical.”

Milverton withdraws his hand, and replaces its glove. “Oh, it was. Down to the anaesthetic.”

“Fascinating. Did he explain why?” 

“He said physical pain wasn’t the point. Then he quoted the Mikado. The man was a dangerous lunatic.”

“So I’ve been given to understand.” 

“He thought I’d never write again, but I showed him, didn’t I?”  The blackmailer-turned-author smiles thinly. “Won the Booker three years later.”

Mycroft nods. “But it wasn’t until he died that you returned to blackmail and slander. That was, incidentally, what drew you to my attention. That and the fact that your wife—”

“—My ex-wife.”

“I _am_ sorry. Your ex-wife recently engaged my brother’s services, unaware that the police were already making their enquiries.” Mycroft pours himself a second cup of tea and continues. “All that’s beside the point. I’d like to know why he did it. What was your previous connection with Sebastian Moran?”

“We had a mutual employer.”

“Jim Moriarty, was it?”

Charles Milverton cannot quite restrain his distaste at the name. “Yes. Him. I introduced them, as it happens.”

“Did you. This is already exceeding my expectations.” Mycroft clasps his hands together with restrained glee. “More tea?”

“I—yes, fine.” Milverton watches the stream of tea falling into his cup, and continues. “I’d been working in the MOD. Strictly a clerical position, you understand.”

“Of course. I remember.” 

The two men had been to school together. Milverton had struck him, then, as a social climber and a bigot. They’d met again as adults, briefly, in a hallway at the Ministry of Defence. Mycroft remembered thinking the other man was flashily overdressed at the time, his dark hair gelled within an inch of its life. 

He dresses more tastefully now, as befits a critically acclaimed (if not best-selling) author. His hair has been allowed to grey around the edges, and his lambskin bomber jacket, while casual, appears to be an Armani. His shoes are somewhat less practical, glossy and pointed. Fair enough: judging by the man’s shape, he doesn’t do much walking if he can help it. _There but for._

“Moran’s name crossed my desk during my time there,” Milverton says. “His details corresponded with a specific data set I’d been asked to...to be on the lookout for. So I passed his name along to a certain party.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised. His file was restricted.”

“Oh, it was. Some of us knew the classification codes, though.”

Mycroft sighs. It’s too late now. 

“I wouldn’t have remembered him later, only I took a fancy to his name. Something in the sound. Writers do that sort of thing.” Milverton swallows. “By the time I met him in person, several years had passed. No mistaking who he was, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“There were stories.”

“Stories about Moran.”

“Yes. Psychopath, assassin, that sort of thing. Someone started a rumour that he was paid in books and guns, and to be honest? It didn’t seem that unlikely. He didn’t have much to say, not that Jim ever let him or anyone else get a word in edgewise. What he did say, though, was always a bit...weird. They said that if he quoted you poetry, you were properly fucked. Mind you, most people never met him.”

“Yet you did. Why was that, do you think?”

“There was a soldier who died a few years after his return to England. He’d managed to blot his copybook overseas, so I’d some leverage. The family were wealthy and had a reputation to maintain. Standard operation, really. They paid up, Moriarty got his cut, and all was happy and bright. Or it was, until he turned up.”

Mycroft does not remark upon their differing interpretations of happiness and/or brightness. He maintains a tone of polite interest. “He, being Moran?”

“Yes. He introduced himself. Said he wanted to have a little chat about my novel.”

“That would have been... _Falling Down It,_ I believe?” 

“You’ve read it?” Milverton asks. Really, the man’s vanity beggars belief. 

“Yes.” Mycroft leaves it at that.

“Well. We talked about it. Literary devices, symbolism, and all that sort of thing. I remember thinking, god help me, that he seemed nice enough. A bit strange, but very polite. Very well-educated.” Milverton shakes his head. “But then the gun came out. He tied me to a chair. Strapped my hands down over the arms. At the wrists.”

“You were alone in the house, I take it.”

“Yes.”

"I see.”

Milverton closes his eyes for a second, and then continues. “He’d brought a leather satchel. He opened it up, and started laying things out on the table. It was the dining room table.”

“What sort of things?”

“There was a small glass bottle, a hypodermic needle, and a box of gauze.” He shudders, lost in memory. “Nitrile gloves. A scalpel? No. Come to think of it, I never did see the scalpel.”

Mycroft takes a sip of tea and waits.

“He tied a bit of cloth over my eyes.  Then he stuck a needle in my right hand. Injected it in several places, like he was a dentist. I remember he said it might hurt a bit.” 

“The anaesthetic....?”

“Yes. Moran didn’t...He didn’t start the cutting until my hand was completely numb. He checked, at intervals. We sat there for ages, waiting for it to go dead. He made me tell him all about the soldier. He said he wanted me to remember him and think before I spoke. Before I wrote. Then he recited the Mikado song. The one everyone knows, about letting the punishment fit the crime.”

“And he cut off the tips of your fingers.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft selects a Bourbon from the plate in the centre of the table, and carefully bisects it with his teeth. He lays the other half on his saucer, and once he has finished chewing, he sighs and dabs at his mouth with a napkin. 

“Let us return,” he says gently, “to the dead soldier.”


	3. Chapter 3

John wakes to a raw throat and a throbbing leg. He rolls away from the wall and snarls back into the face of the small wooden figure beside the clock. It isn’t morning. It’s half noon.

 _“You’re_ going downstairs,” he tells the tiger. “Let’s see how you like living with a skull.”

Sherlock is staring out the window, hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t turn when he hears John enter, but remarks, “Milverton’s in police custody. He never made it out of London.”

“No case, then?” 

He turns, in an expressive swirl of dressing gown. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Why? Are we still in it?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer his question. “The woman with the gun.  She doesn’t fit the profile.”

“Profile?”

“For blackmail. Not exactly victim material. No money there, and she was quite at ease with the gun. Not a hint of hysteria. Steady hands.”

“Was she with the police? If the house was under surveillance....”

“She wasn’t an AFO.”

John considers this. “Other people _do_ carry firearms. Criminals. Or the sort of people who work for your brother.”

“She had no idea who we were. That rules out the Secret Service. She didn’t strike me as particularly criminal, either. No, she was something else, altogether.”

“What, then?” 

Sherlock frowns. “Oddly enough, she reminded me of you.”

“Seriously? A woman reminded you of _me?_ I’m not sure how to take that.”

“No, no, no. Forget about gender. It’s irrelevant. Think back. What did you see?”

There had been nothing particularly unusual or memorable in her appearance, other than the handgun. She was an inch or two shorter than John, perhaps, with straight dark hair pulled back into a tidy ponytail. She was probably in her late thirties (John sometimes finds it difficult to gauge women’s ages), and slight of build. Her clothes were practical: jeans and a nondescript black jacket with a zip. Her eyes were golden brown. John remembers staring into them, over the gun. When she ordered them into the back garden, it was more gesture than words. A quick jerk of the head. Sherlock had looked as if he were about to try something stupid, and John had said, “Don’t. She means it.”

“You think she’s ex-military,” John says, slowly. 

Sherlock cocks his head at him. “So do you.”

“Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

“Not recently,” Sherlock continues. “Or not as recently as you. But it’s obvious.”

“There are a lot of us about,” John feels obliged to point out. “I mean, statistically, there are bound to be old soldiers everywhere. Do you think it’s particularly significant?”

“Might be.”

“And you don’t think he was blackmailing her?”

“No. I think she was there in a capacity similar to ours. She did not expect Milverton to be at home, although she hoped his computer was. Bit of a disappointment there.” 

“If the police have it, now....Surely that’s it, then. He’s done. We're done.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock frowns, faintly, and gazes down into the street with unfocussed eyes. “Were you making tea?”

“Yes. Eventually.” 

“Good.” He fishes his mobile out of his pocket, and starts keying something into the touchscreen. 

* * *

 John does make them tea, but he’s slow about it. His throat feels nearly as roughed up as his leg, and it occurs to him that he might be coming down with something. 

He toasts bread while the tea steeps, and rummages through the cupboards for the jar of honey. It’s partly crystallised, and stuck to the wood because someone (Sherlock) had failed to wipe it down properly before putting it away. He sighs, wrenches it free, and adds a generous spoonful to his cup. 

Sherlock drifts in a few minutes later, and nicks a slice of toast off John’s plate. He is still deeply absorbed in his phone. 

“I was going to eat that,” John protests, and Sherlock peers down at him where he is slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. 

“Were you?” 

“Thought I was.” 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” John takes a sip of tea, and the vapour rising off his cup manages to go down his throat in exactly the wrong way. He coughs.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You’re not well,” he remarks, sounding slightly aggrieved. 

“I’ve just inhaled some steam, that’s all.”

“No. Rhinovirus,” Sherlock says, indistinctly, through a crumbling mouthful of toast. He swallows. “Surely that’s a two-day incubation period.” 

“Oh, for god’s sake. Don’t deduce my symptoms, Sherlock. Or must I remind you that I’m the doctor?”

“Am I wrong?”

John laughs, a bit painfully. “No. Probably not.”

He wishes Sherlock wouldn’t peer at him as if he’s some sort of microscopic slide. 

“You’ve got a sore throat.”

“Brilliant. Yes.”

Sherlock nods, and turns to the refrigerator. “There was a lemon,” he suggests.

“The one I binned three days ago?”

“Oh.” Sherlock frowns at him over the open door.

“Yes. It was green and blue.” John takes another, more successful, swig of tea. The honey helps, a little. 

Sherlock closes the refrigerator. “I could get a new one.”

“You what?”

“I said, I could get another lemon.”

John stares at him, long enough that Sherlock’s forehead wrinkles in perplexity. “Is that...strange?” 

 _From you, yes,_ John thinks. Sherlock doesn’t, as a rule, volunteer to do the shopping. Not unless he has an ulterior motive, like the time he went out for milk and—”Yes. You’re up to something.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “A pointlessly elaborate lemon acquisition scheme,” he suggests. “First, I inoculated our only household lemon with a fungal colony—”

“I’m pretty sure _that_ wasn’t necessary,” John interjects. “I’ve been meaning to swab the fridge out with bleach. It’s a mould farm in there.”

“—and then I waited for you to become conveniently ill. I suppose it’s too late to introduce a bushel of lemons into the flat without suspicion, now.”

“A _bushel?”_ John snorts. “So, what, then? An experiment? A sudden yearning for lemonade? Wait. No. You were going to use the juice for invisible ink. Maybe...send Mycroft some threateningly blank anonymous postcards. Am I right?” 

Sherlock regards him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “God, no. Lemon juice comes out _brown.”_

John laughs, but it makes his throat burn. “Just the one lemon, then.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “I can just about manage that.” He reaches for his tea and downs it at an alarming pace, considering the temperature. His throat must be lined with asbestos.

John looks down at his remaining slice of cooling toast. In retrospect, two pieces had been ambitious.  He isn’t very hungry. “There’s the list, if you’re going,” he says, and points to the refrigerator door. 

Sherlock scans it briefly, and sets his cup down with a subdued crash. 

“Off out,” he announces, and darts off to his bedroom, presumably to change into proper clothing. John wouldn’t put it past him to do the shopping in a dressing gown, but today is not that day.

* * *

Sherlock locates the lemons, but selects three, rather than the one John had suggested.  Fluorescent lighting and popular songs make him capricious.

 _Feed a fever, starve a cold_...

No. It goes the other way round, surely, despite the fact that alliteration would be more pleasing. It is hardly a medically sound axiom, is it? John would know. John, whose eyes were glassy this morning, whose voice had sounded rough. 

John does not look well, and that is unacceptable. 

Sherlock can still see his friend’s face above him on the wall, grey and drawn. He’d felt something akin to glacial panic as he sawed through cloth to get John free. It was as if someone had said, _Wouldn’t it be stupid if, after everything, it happened like this?_

_If it happened._

And for what? A case that wasn’t up to the usual standard for urgency or interest; certainly not as it had been presented. The woman with the gun bumped it up a notch, but he can’t claim to have predicted _that._

Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket, and the screen is dark. He enters the passcode anyway, and looks over the day’s messages. Lestrade had started things off early that morning with a photograph of John’s raincoat. 

**Was all that paperwork you did just a joke to you two?**

Sherlock had ignored this. It was followed two hours later with a cryptic addendum. **Your brother is worse than you are.**

This he had answered: _Yes. -SH_

**I hope John’s all right. Looks like that could have resulted in a serious injury.**

_It didn’t. -SH_

Sherlock _does_ know this. It’s all very well for other people to point out the potential for tragic consequence, but in the end, no one had died. If anything, John seemed much more put out by their discussion about the tiger. If there were unfortunate consequences to be avoided, perhaps Sherlock should have started there.  

He’d felt a compulsion to be honest. The tiger was a gesture, of sorts. Something to say, _I have shut you out of things. Important things, dangerous things. It hurt you, and I see now that that was wrong. I don’t think I_ could _have done it differently. I don’t know how to say that. Here’s a thing that you will see and understand. You can be relied upon to start the conversation._

Gestures do go wrong. He doesn’t make them, as a rule. Being dead was not a gesture, though. It was a necessity. Necessity isn’t kind.

The conversation went wrong. He’d thought they could get through the Irene part fairly quickly, and hadn’t anticipated all the places that discussion would lead. Ultimately, it led to Sherlock making an admission of sorts: that John is important in a way that is not, objectively, fair.

 _He makes a lovely little satellite,_ Irene had said.

Irene is wrong. She’s got it completely backwards. John is nothing like a satellite. Sherlock is the one with the decaying orbit. 

He frowns and glances up at the signs hung above him. 

* * *

John looks up from his darkened laptop with a jerk when he hears the door to 221B slam shut. There is a rustle of bags and Sherlock’s voice, saying “You might have told me.” 

There is a long silence, and then Sherlock’s voice returns, softer this time. “Did he? Fascinating. I wonder what he did with them.”

John sighs, and rolls his neck. He had intended to work on his blog, but he never made it past the blinking cursor stage. Instead, he’d amused himself by reading Daily Mail Health comment section flame wars until (apparently) he had fallen asleep.

Sherlock, still on the phone, pokes his head into the living room in time to catch John cursing as he rubs his wounded leg. He’d forgotten about the lacerations. “Yes, _thank you_ ,” Sherlock says, but it’s clearly directed at the person on the other end of the line. 

 _Mycroft?_ John mouths at him, and Sherlock rolls his eyes in affirmation. He retreats, and there is more rustling, followed by a clinking sound and the tap running.

John is just starting to get to his feet when Sherlock returns with a glass of water. “Don’t,” he says. He sets the glass on the table and pulls a small white plastic bottle out of his coat pocket. “No, I was talking to John.” He waves the bottle.

Zinc tablets. Not on the list. Odd. John accepts them, and Sherlock nods briefly at him before sailing back into the kitchen. There is a further rustling, and the sound of slamming cupboards. 

John sits down and looks at the back of the bottle, as a matter of habit. _With food._ He had eaten the toast, but that was—

Sherlock returns, with a plate this time. It has a piece of buttered bread on it. He still has the phone pressed to one ear. John blinks at him.

“Yes. Good,” Sherlock says. He sets the plate on the arm of John’s chair. John glances back up at him, and he’s stabbing at the phone with one finger. 

Conversation over, then.

“What was that?”

Sherlock shoves the phone into his pocket. “Milverton. Moriarty. Moran. Mycroft. Why must absolutely everything malevolent begin with the letter _M?”_

“No idea.” 

“The military,” he continues. “The Mikado.”

“Murder?” John ventures. 

“Maybe.” 

“Well, that’s something.” John looks at the bread, the tablets, and the water. “Thanks.”

“There is soup,” his flatmate offers, “but it’s in a tin.” 

And Sherlock may be making an effort, but it’s very nearly reassuring that he leaves it at that.

* * *

John is listening to radio archives of the _Unbelievable Truth_ on his laptop. Sherlock is trying not to begrudge him this entertainment when his illness is clearly making it impossible to read or focus, but the noise is making it impossible for Sherlock to read or focus. If he was in a better mood, or didn’t have other things to think about, he could simply interject his own remarks, as he so often does with John’s other unfortunate new obsession, _QI._  

Sherlock sets his own laptop down, not as gently as he ought to, and John looks up, bleary-eyed from his reclining position on the sofa (a position that Sherlock is very nobly not claiming as his right, although it is). “Sorry. Am I bothering you?”

“David Mitchell."

“Yes? I find him funny.”

“Of course you do.”

“What I would like to see,” John says, “is you, David Mitchell, and Stephen Fry in the same room. Possibly after it has been locked and barricaded. Although it might be a bit unfair on Stephen, now that I think of it.”

“Might it.”

“Be fair. He’s getting on a bit. Brilliant, but less sarcastic than David.”

“And you’re on first name terms with both of them, are you? Should I expect them round to dinner?”

“Not sure I exert that sort of pull,” John says. “But _you_ might.”

Sherlock shudders. “The cult of celebrity. Why is it that every comic in Britain feels the need to impose themselves on the public with their poorly conceived quiz shows?”

“I thought you liked people to be informed. You’re always saying how stupid everyone is. Why begrudge the people a bit of knowledge?”

“About _frogs._ ” Sherlock heaves himself out of his chair. “Right. I’ve suffered through the theme tune long enough, thank you.” 

“Sorry. I can go upstairs, if it’s really bothering you that much. Have you got something? About the woman with the gun, I mean?”

“No,” Sherlock says, going to retrieve the headphones that are customarily perched on the bison skull. “Here. I believe these still work.”

John laughs. “Right, then.” He accepts them and plugs them into his laptop. “Disparage them all you like, but someday, I’m going to know something you don’t.”

“I shall hold you to that,” Sherlock says, and returns to his chair. There is a partial silence now, interrupted only by John’s occasional cough-punctuated chuckle. 

Sherlock immerses himself in history, in military scandals. There are so many...

* * *

John is lying in his bed, still listening to the radio, although by now, his head aches due to the pressure of the headphones. It’s an odd echo of other headphones, of nights spent listening to the World Service in a very different place. 

Just now, he is listening to something strange on Radio 4. The presenter has a nice voice, articulate and wry. It savours words.

 _The tourist,_ he says, _is typically presented with a list of mandatory sights. Monuments, marvels, and glorious views. Giddy mountain tops and great works of architecture._

_For me, these are not, and indeed, cannot be, my experience of foreign lands. What I am given is the air itself. The sounds and smells of other places. Touch one marble column, and sadly, there is very little to be gained from touching another. Little, I say, but perhaps I do feel something. I like to think I do._

_There is a rich history here, and it is embedded in the columns and in the very stones beneath my feet. That history is something that anyone can experience through literature, through art. For me, the plunging horses of the Parthenon friezes can only be described in words and the brief brush of fingers the British Museum has been kind enough to allow me._

_Strange, isn’t it, that Lord Elgin’s theft should afford me an opportunity that a journey to Athens itself cannot?_

_To get a sense of this place, Athens as it is now, I turn to the voices and sounds and cuisine of the people who live here. This place is very dear to me, although I have never seen it and never will. How strange and beautiful it is. So much of what we take for granted arose here._

_Let us begin as I arrive..._

John is several minutes into the programme when he realises the presenter is blind. He closes his own eyes as he listens. It is soothing.

_This has been Global Adventures With Victor Trevor. Next week, he’ll be taking you to San Francisco._

John is very nearly asleep, but he starts at this. He’s hardly at his best, but he could swear he’s heard that name before. The association is, however, eluding him. He pulls the headphones off, sets the computer aside, and drifts into sleep.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft’s voice is tinny and broken up when Sherlock answers his phone. “Milverton’s dead soldier appears to have been a part of something bigger than blackmail,” he says.  It’s clear he is in a car, definitely in the rain, judging by the other ambient sounds. It is not raining in London.

“Explain.” Sherlock tucks the mobile between his shoulder and his ear and rifles through the silverware drawer. The call had not arrived at a convenient time.

“What are you doing?” 

“Why do you care?” He is torn between a simple butter knife and the two-pronged meat fork. After a moment’s consideration—size of aperture, curve of handle, and ease of manipulation— he settles on two butter knives. Sadly, they do not meet the third criterion at all.

“I’m sure I don’t know.” This is followed by an exasperated sigh, one carefully selected from Mycroft’s middle range of exasperated sighs.

“The dead soldier,” Sherlock prompts him, readjusting his hold on his phone. It’s slippery. Perhaps he ought to invest in one of those awful rubberised sleeves. He takes up the two knives and gingerly approaches the toaster, which is smoking heavily by now. 

“His connection with Moran was more than a coincidence.”

“Obviously. The visit and the fingers,” Sherlock says, wondering how a simple burnt piece of bread can simultaneously crumble and sag. It’s ridiculous. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock hitches the phone up again. Perhaps he ought to have put it on speaker, to begin with. Now it’s too late. “I _said,_ the visit and the fingers. Odd thing to do to one of Moriarty’s henchmen, if the blackmail was a success.”

“Indeed.” There’s a pause. “It is impossible to converse with you over that horrid scraping sound.”

Sherlock pries the charred heel free at last, burning his fingers in the process, and tosses the knives down with a clatter. “Fine. You may continue.”

“Was that a fork in a toaster?”

“No. It was two knives in a toaster.”

“Ah. How domestic. I trust you unplugged it first?”

“Yes,” Sherlock lies, wiping charred crumbs off his hands. “The soldier. Moran.”

“They were both in the Bangalore Pioneers, which as you may recall, did not exist. The dead man returned to Britain before Moran, and he spent the rest of his life in a high-security mental institution. No visitors recorded during that time.”

“Interesting.”

“Psychosis and paranoia,” Mycroft states. “Followed by a spectacular suicide.”

“PTSD?”

“That was the explanation given.” 

“You don’t think it adds up.”

“No. Which is why I’m currently en route to the facility where he died.”

“In Belfast,” Sherlock suggests. 

“Why Belfast?”

“I can hear rain.”

“Ah. You’re returned to your childish obsession with weather patterns again.”

“By which you mean you won’t confirm that. Fine. Why go in person, when you can send someone else to do your dirty work?”

“It was built in 1990. If a government facility is located in an area no one wanted to visit, there is usually a reason.”

“So you think there might be more to the original coverup.”

“Whatever it is, it undoubtedly requires discretion. Now. About this blurry figure in the surveillance footage.”

“Was there one?”

“You know there was. Time stamps, Sherlock. The Yard might be a bit slow, but I am not. Based on height, most likely a woman. Well?”

“Yes.”

“And you and John—incidentally, how _is_ John?”

“Sleeping.”

“At this hour? Is he ill?”

“He has a cold. He’ll be fine.”

“And you’re burning toast.” Mycroft clears his throat. “The two of you made a hasty exit into the back garden, shortly after this female person was seen entering Milverton’s house. Why?”

“She had a gun.”

“Did she. We’ll have to revisit that, won’t we. I assume you got a good look at her? She evaded the cameras very neatly.”

“I did.”

“And did she explain her presence?”

“She did not. Not verbally. But John and I agree she’d done military service.”

“The gun?”

“The way she held it. Conclusive.”

“Very interesting, indeed.” There’s a moment of silence, and Mycroft says, “We’ve arrived. Expect to hear from me again soon.”

* * *

John stirs, and wonders why it is that ammonia capsules are included in medical kits when the smell of burning would be equally effective. Sherlock Holmes is clearly continuing his ongoing war with their household toaster. John has learned to identify nearly as many varieties of burning smell as Sherlock has tobacco ash, and this is _definitely_ charred bread.

This time, the smell hadn’t invaded his dreams. No, he’d been on a lifeboat with a tiger, for some reason.

That was _Life of Pi_ , wasn’t it? It’s probably for the best he doesn’t do therapy anymore. God knows what Ella would have made of that one. It was, at least, more restful than his usual fare. The tiger had been largely silent.

Sherlock is on the sofa looking vexed when John emerges into the living room, feeling very nearly human again after a steaming hot shower and some fresh clothes.

“Why a tiger?” John asks. “I feel like an idiot for only asking now, but honestly, why a tiger?”

“You knew him better than I did,” Sherlock says. 

“I didn’t, really.” John sinks down into his chair, and _oh._ There’s a cup of tea. Again. “He was Bill Richardson to me, but then he turned out not to be a real person.”

Sherlock frowns. “Irene had a photograph.” He reaches for his phone, and begins scrolling through something with impatient flicks of his fingers. “Ah. There.” He holds it out for John to see.

And there it is, an image encapsulated in a text bubble. Sebastian Moran, stood in front of a tiger in a zoo enclosure. 

“Okay." John is trying not to be annoyed by the timestamp, which he associates with a certain man being dead. “What does it mean?”

“Odd, isn’t it? This was accompanied by a threat from Moriarty. I had thought it was something simple. Predators together. They’re wearing much the same expression.”

“Oh,” John says, because he does remember something. “We...we watched a nature documentary, one afternoon.” Sherlock had been dead, John was lonely, and Bill was the convenient Sunday-afternoon friend across the street. Bill— _Sebastian_ —had been completely riveted to the screen when a tiger appeared. “He said...Oh, I don’t know what he said. Something about conservation? Apparently, he liked them.”

 _“He liked them,”_ Sherlock repeats, in an odd sort of voice.

“That’s all I’ve got. If he had a secret collection of tiger figurines or embarrassing Tigger bedroom slippers, I certainly never saw them.” John takes a sip of tea. “Which reminds me. Did you set the toaster to six again?”

“What? No. It was the crust. It burned.” 

“Obviously,” John says, and he laughs. Then he coughs.

* * *

Inevitably, John returns to his bed. Sherlock does not discourage this.

The tiger thing is still eating at him, so he gets out his mobile.

_Is there a special significance to tigers? Beyond the photograph?_

**Bonjour, mon cher. Are we doing crosswords?**

_Sebastian Moran. Why the tiger?_

There is a long pause.

**JM used to call him Tiger. I think he hated it. Will that do?**

_Possibly._

**Why?**

_Not your concern._

**That’s unfair. I’m trapped in a chair for the next hour. Entertain me.**

_Returning to honest blonde?_

**Says the man who pretends he doesn’t care.**

_I don’t._

**But you did notice.**

_I observed._

**I’m sure that wasn’t all you observed.**

_Hoboken, New Jersey._ _Ages 6 through 12._

There is another pause.

**You must have done quite a lot of digging. Should I feel special?**

_Don’t._

**Oh, but I do. That was impressive.**

_It wasn’t a stretch._

**Not for you and your sexy brain.**

_You’re boring me._

**You’re still talking.**

_No._

* * *

That evening, Sherlock pokes his head into John’s room and waits for him to remove the headphones. “I’m off to Bart’s. Molly’s found me a man with a spike in his chest.”

“Nasty way to die, but you’ve seen worse. Good, though. You've been a bit bored.”

“It _would_ have been nasty, if that was what had killed him. No, it sat there for years, completely undetected. She thought I’d want to see it.”

“That was very kind of her,” John says. “Try not to bring anything home with you.”

“Hadn’t planned to.” Sherlock studies him for a moment. “Yes. Well. Mrs. Hudson said she might look in on you later. There could be soup.”

“I’m not dying. It’s just a cold.” 

“Yes, of course. I wasn’t worried.” He’s still hovering in the doorway.

“Good. Enjoy your corpse, and give Molly my best.”

He goes, and John smiles a little at the thought that this is what they’ve come to. So long as it doesn’t result in a bag of fingers in the refrigerator, it’s just a harmless bit of fun. It’s good, really, that Sherlock and Molly had managed to build something like a proper friendship out of the events of the last year. He’ll never quite get over the spectacle of Molly bringing Sherlock hair dye, but there was something charmingly humanising about it all. He can admit this, now.

John stretches, and returns his eyes to his laptop. He has continued listening to the new radio programme he’d discovered, although he is irked by his continued inability to place the presenter’s name. 

 _Well. That’s what Google is for,_ he thinks, and opens a fresh browser window. Mercifully, Victor Trevor does not appear to be a common name. The first few items to appear are blog links, and _images for victor trevor,_ three lines down, returns a repeated logo of a globe with a cartoon man and dog trotting over the surface of it. He clicks the images link, and is rewarded with several photographs of a man in his middle-to-late thirties. He has curling fair hair and unfocussed blue eyes that crinkle around the edges when he’s smiling.

John frowns at the photographs, because now he is quite convinced he _has_ seen this man before. Where? _Something to do with Sherlock,_ he thinks, but of course, that statement could be applied to so many people and things. He scrolls down, and there’s another photograph of Victor Trevor, seated at a table in what appears to be a park, with a dog lying at his feet. That’s the image that jars the memory loose: Sherlock and John had been in Regent’s Park, not long after their first case, and they’d seen him there. Sherlock had insisted upon communicating via the text field of his mobile, because he hadn’t wanted Victor Trevor to overhear them. John had asked a number of questions, but Sherlock had been dismissive. The most he’d got out of him was the man’s name. At the time, John hadn’t felt it appropriate to pry, and then he’d forgotten. God knows there were enough mad moments with Sherlock after that to push it out of his head completely.

Victor Trevor looks pleasant enough. In most of the photographs, he’s wearing tweed and seems an old-fashioned, bookish sort of fellow. He looks, in fact, very much the way he sounds. Donnish and indefinably wistful. Certainly nothing sinister. 

John backs out of the image results and selects one of the blog links. It shouldn’t, in this day and age, be at all surprising for a blind man to have a blog. Not an intellectual radio presenter, at any rate. Mostly, he seems to write about literature and history. There is nothing to do with murder or crime of any kind; just general musings and the occasional humorous anecdote. Sometimes there’s a touch of sharpness in his wit; a touch of ego glimpsed beneath the charm. Occasionally, he mentions his dog (Penelope), and a man called Ned. It isn’t entirely clear what their relationship is. Possibly friends, possibly something a bit more complicated.

By this point, John is beginning to feel like an internet stalker, so he abandons the blog. Still, on a whim, he does a search for _“Victor Trevor” “Sherlock Holmes”._

That results in something surprising. It brings up a blog entry dated not long after Sherlock’s death, entitled **_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes._**

_Perhaps it seems unlikely that any person, outside the realm of fiction, could be capable of the intellectual feats attributed to Sherlock Holmes. So often, we ascribe fraudulence to that which we cannot ourselves comprehend. A man has died, and the papers feast on his remains like crows on a battlefield. “Impossible!” they cry, and it seems that an ungrateful, fickle public is all too willing to flock behind them, to brand him a most uncommon criminal._

_To be sure, there_ is _a crime in progress, a grand deception of terrible proportions. We are all complicit in this crime, dear readers. The media have a short memory for good deeds, but it doesn’t take much spadework to turn up incontrovertible proof that Kitty Riley and her brazen-tongued colleagues are very wrong, indeed. Look away from your televisions. Put down your Sun, your Mirror, your Daily Mail. They’re telling you lies._

_I know they are, because I knew the man who died, and the quality of his character and his intellect. We attended university together, and at one time, I called him my friend. I knew him, and I know he was never a fraud. What I also know is that brilliance is a quality that comes with a certain cost. Brilliance is not a comfortable thing at the best of times. It is not, unfortunately, a quality we prize highly enough to overlook the very human flaws of the people who wield it. We laud great men and women when they tell us what we want to hear, but vilify them when they touch upon truths we find discomfiting._

_Sherlock Holmes was, as I say, a friend of mine.  At the age of nineteen, he could look at your shoes and tell you where you’d been and what you’d been doing. More damagingly, perhaps, he could tell you with whom you had done it. This was not a parlour trick; it was the result of keen observation coupled with extraordinary analytical ability. He did it in a flash. Nowadays, as privacy erodes and we all consist of readily-accessible internet datasets, it seems easy to dismiss the sort of things he did as tricks of research or underhanded dealings. But when I knew him, the world was a very different place. Information was harder to come by, but he was as astounding then as he was before he died. He observed, he analysed, and he spoke without considering consequence._

_And because I, too cast him aside when he told me truths I didn’t want to hear, I recognise the implements of his destruction. Sherlock was not the sort of man who played the games the media demands. He was not a man who considered societal expectations before he acted, nor could he allow sentiment to impede his pursuit of justice. The work he did was not for personal gain; it was performed in service to Truth. In quiet corners of London, in dusty police files, you’ll find the ultimate proofs of his ability. You’ll find evidence of the problems he solved and the countless, ordinary people that he helped. Speak to them, and you will see the lie for what it is. They remember, and they believe._

_Look beyond wounded egos, guilty consciences, and petty resentments, and you will know, as I do, that this man did not deserve the death he was driven towards. Some of us remember him as the difficult, but undeniable genius that he was._

_We believe in Sherlock Holmes._

There are hundreds of comments. 

“Who the hell _are_ you?” John asks, into the stillness of the room. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been this. Not an eulogy. Not something that sounds like a rally to war. 

John cannot forget how hard it had been for him to write the simple words, _He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._ It had been nearly impossible to type anything into his blog at all.  Now there’s this, from someone he doesn't even know. He wonders what it means.

* * *

The spike is diminutive, more of a nail, but still impressive. Molly had left it in place for a series of photographs and x-rays, and it is still there when Sherlock arrives. 

“It’s a bit like Christmas morning,” she says, beaming at Sherlock over the cold, paper-white body of an elderly man. “I felt I had to wait.”

It’s funny that after years of sham-smiling at Molly, Sherlock finds it easy to give her the genuine article now. "What was it?” he asks.

“Pneumonia. Imagine that. He must have been an extraordinary man, to be walking around like that for years and never notice.”

“A builder,” Sherlock says, stepping forward to examine the corpse's blue-tinged fingernails. They bear out the occupation suggested by the nail in his chest. “Not English,” he continues, upon examining his dental work.

“Polish,” she confirms. “Such a shame about his family. Now...are you ready to see inside his chest?"

A little later, Mr. Abramowicz has been safely returned to his drawer, and the two of them are drinking coffee in the canteen. 

Molly scrubs her hands together (she really ought to use more hand cream) and says, “So. Any new murders?”

“No.” 

“That’s too bad.” She stops herself, with a hand to her mouth. “That’s not what I meant. You know what I meant.”

“Yes. I do." 

There is a pause as Molly stirs her coffee. Then she says, “Funny about the nail. I’d read once about someone getting one put through his skull. His missed everything important, just like our Mr. Abramowicz. And of course, it was another accident. But it made me wonder whether anyone had ever been murdered that way. With a pneumatic nail gun, I mean.”

“Absolutely. It’s quite easy to miss the entrance wound, as you can imagine. Easy to dismiss as an accident.”

“So you’ve seen it happen?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “And I solved it rather quickly, too. Pity it was before John’s time, or you could have been reading the _Case of the Barmy Builder_ on his blog.”

Molly laughs. “He wouldn’t.” 

“He would."

“No, you’re right.” 

“Of course I am.”

“And how _is_ John?” Molly asks. Unlike everyone else, she manages not to make it sound accusatory. 

Sherlock appreciates this. “He has a cold. But he says hello, and that you are not to give me any souvenirs.”

* * *

Mycroft is looking at a list of names. Dead men and women, and it’s not the first time. These were soldiers. Soldiers who served in a regiment that never existed. 

He scans the dates of their deaths, and some are familiar. Sebastian Moran. David Okoro, the man who’d died in Belfast. Others are not. Among them, there are six dates that match, and five of these were officers. One, Joseph Richardson, was not. 

_Richardson._

Mycroft has a good memory for names. It’s a common enough surname, so perhaps it’s a coincidence that Sebastian Moran had introduced himself to John as Bill Richardson. It could be, but he doesn’t think it is.

He turns, then to the list of known survivors. It is painfully small, small enough that the sole female name on it leaps into high relief. A medic. 

He wonders whether Sherlock will recognise her face.


	5. Chapter 5

John wakes early to sun streaming in through the window, and with it, a fresh sense of purpose. He’s finished with the squalor of illness; sleeping in clammy sheets with his laptop and the headphones tucked against the wall. Time to shower. Time to shave. Time to put the flat in order. Time to live in the present and forget about the reading he’s done. 

He’s feeling much better now; well enough to be militant about things like the state of the bathroom sink and the boxes of books and papers that never had quite made their way back onto the shelves. Honestly, they’ve been there for weeks. 

“Look at it this way,” John says to Sherlock, plying him with a third cup of overly-sugared coffee. “Clean things up a bit, and you can pace to your heart’s content.” 

“I’m not pacing.”

“No. Not enough room. What _you’re_ doing is the special cheater’s edition of Don’t Touch the Floor. I mean it, though. Get that lot put away, and you’ll still have plenty of time to look lazy and bored when Mycroft gets here.”

“Point,” Sherlock acknowledges, and rolls up his sleeves. He’s still being strangely agreeable, and John wonders how much he can get away with while it lasts. He supposes he’ll settle for cleanliness.

Hours later, the flat has progressed to a state of Comfortably Untidy. Mrs. Hudson has been up twice to investigate the thumping and sliding sounds (under the guise of bringing them lunch), and Sherlock has vanished into his bedroom with a box of files. 

John is in the final stages of giving the kitchen a thorough clean when he hears the door swing open. “Thanks for the soup, Mrs. H,” he calls, not bothering to look up from the vegetable crisper. It had been stained black with decomposing spinach leaves. “I’m feeling much better now.”

“I’m sure she’ll be relieved to hear that.” 

John glances up from his labours and directly into the shrewd grey eyes of Mycroft Holmes. “Oh. You’re early. That’s bad manners.”

Mycroft’s lips pleat into a narrow smile. “Yes. My apologies.”

John gives the plastic a parting swipe with his sponge and tilts the bin over the sink to dry. “So tell me. You fixed the raincoat thing, didn’t you? With the police.”

 _“Fixed,_ John? I merely implied that the two of you were making an investigation at my request.”

“Clearly we are. Or you wouldn’t have come.”

“Lucky guess.” 

“Call it an educated guess. An observation. I can do those too, you know. Which reminds me. Did Sherlock—”

“Did I what?” Like a pantomime demon, Sherlock pops in at the doorway, wild-haired and dusty of trousers. His sleeves are still rolled to the elbow. 

“Ah. There you are,” Mycroft remarks, eyes lingering over his brother’s knees. “I’ve brought you something. Shall we repair to the sitting room?”

“Repair?” Sherlock repeats, rolling his eyes. “How Victorian.”

Mycroft doesn’t rise to the bait. “Please. And do clear off the table, if you would be so kind.”

John watches in bemused silence as Sherlock transfers stacks of battered periodicals onto the floor. Most of them are scientific journals, but there are a few tabloids in among them, and something that looks suspiciously like a lad’s mag. 

Once he’s finished, Sherlock pulls the extra chair away from the wall and shoves it in at the end of the table with a flourish. “There. Or did you want a cup of tea? We don’t have any biscuits. It wouldn’t be worth your while.”

“Such hospitality.” Mycroft sets down his attache case and takes a seat in front of it. “Before we begin, I must tell you that what we are about to discuss is sensitive.  Very sensitive indeed. I’d ask that you refrain from discussing the matter anywhere but here. Am I understood?”

John nods, and Sherlock eventually says, “Fine,” when it becomes clear that Mycroft will not continue without explicit agreement from them both.

“Good.” He does not open the attache case, but continues speaking with his hand laid protectively over its buckles. “Charles Milverton is more than a simple, garden-variety blackmailer. Years back, he worked in the MOD. During this time, he was, unfortunately, provided access to a number of protected files, including personnel records. Once he had been engaged as an informant and extortionist by Jim Moriarty, he used some of this information for their mutual gain. It was he who facilitated the initial contact between his employer and Sebastian Moran. Moran had been a member of a regiment that—and I cannot stress this strongly enough **—** did not exist.”

“The First Bangalore Pioneers,” Sherlock interjects. “You’d given me that much, before.”

“Yes. They were created in secret to accomplish initiatives that could not be associated publicly with the British government. Its membership was diversely talented. Sebastian Moran was a sniper, but he was also an explosives technician.”

“Christmas for Moriarty,” John remarks. 

“Quite so,” Mycroft agrees. “But Milverton’s interest in the Pioneers did not stop at recruitment. There was a deeply buried scandal associated with them, something bad enough that it resulted in the regiment being disbanded. Most of the surviving members left the military. One, David Okoro, was interned in a secure government-funded psychiatric facility for several years. Ultimately, he committed suicide, and it was then that Milverton overreached himself. He blackmailed Okoro’s family after the death, and Sebastian Moran caught wind of what he’d done. At this point in the narrative, I’m afraid I must resort to conjecture. What we do know for certain is that Moran met with Milverton and mutilated his right hand with a scalpel. According to Milverton’s own testimony, he had completed the Okoro blackmail with Moriarty’s approval. This implies that Moran acted for personal reasons.”

“More than implies,” Sherlock says. “Moriarty wouldn’t damage a tool he intended to use.”

John cringes at this, remembering the absurd care with which he had been treated during the pool incident. He’d been tucked into his explosive parka like a baby in a blanket.

Mycroft nods. “Milverton’s description of their meeting bears this out. Moran told him that he had chosen to damage his hand in such a way as to make writing difficult; to make him think before he spoke. Why would Moran, who was already firmly entrenched in a criminal organisation, a man to whom we can attribute any number of crimes at Moriarty’s behest, be so concerned about the good name of a dead soldier?”

“Loyalty?” John asks. “They’d served together. Maybe they were mates.”

“Possibly,” Mycroft allows. “A bond created by the shared experience of a traumatic event? You’ll have to tell me, John. Of the three of us, you’re the only one who knew Moran in anything like a social capacity. Did he seem, to you, a man capable of loyalty?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. Nothing about him made much sense. Why did he make contact with me at all? Why the pretence of friendship? Once I knew who he was, I assumed he was using me as bait, to draw Sherlock out of hiding.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock says. “At the time, I was stalking _him._ Finding me was never an issue.” 

“No, because you...” John shakes his head. “Right. I did work that out, eventually. I’m still not sure it made much sense. Had you asked me about _Bill Richardson,_ before I knew who he really was, I would have said he was a man of strong moral principle. He seemed quiet and kind. Just...a decent bloke with some battle scars. We never really talked about our service.”

“Bookish and shy, according to his school records,” Mycroft puts in. "Clearly something changed."

“Well, but he was, really. And...maybe he was just a brilliant actor, but you should have seen him when the Arch blew up. I mean, I did see him. We were watching the news, and he seemed genuinely horrified. Surprised, even. I remembered that, after Mycroft told me who he really was. It didn’t add up. He was concerned about the people. He was concerned about _me._ ”

“Your judgement was hardly trustworthy at the time,” Sherlock says. “If you thought he was your friend, you saw what you expected to see.”

“No, of course not. That did occur to me later. So, yeah. One afternoon, I paid him another visit with a gun in my bag.”

Sherlock frowns. John can only assume it’s because he hates missing information of any kind. “You never mentioned that.”

“Well, I didn’t shoot him then, did I? But I was prepared to. By then I saw he must have known who I was all along. I thought anything might happen. I thought... Well. I did consider pulling it on him in his kitchen.”

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock asks. “Might have saved everyone a lot of bother.”

John looks down at his hands. They seem small and pale against the wooden table. Someone else’s hands. “Because I had to know for myself. I had to be certain that he was everything your brother had assured me he was. Because, as I said, it didn’t add up, not completely.” He swallows. “I went there, fully prepared to do it, and then he made me tea. He asked me how I was, for god’s sake. Because of the Arch. He said...he said something about it being wrong for beautiful things to be destroyed. He told me he’d done terrible things, in the past. That he regretted them. And you know, I think he really did.” 

“So you didn’t shoot him because he expressed _regret?”_

“No, I didn’t shoot him because I felt doubt. You know I’ve shot people,” John says. “When I’ve had to.” He’s reasonably certain Mycroft knows about the cabbie. “I could have done it, but it had to be the only good solution. I had to be certain. I wasn’t. Not until I saw him with a gun to your head.” 

Mycroft lets this sit for a moment, and then clears his throat. “Let’s leave it, for the time being. We can only guess at his motives.”

“Self-interest, when it came to Milverton?” Sherlock suggests. “He knew too much about the Pioneers.”

“Yet he knew very little.” Mycroft unbuckles the case with long, deft fingers. “What I have brought with me,” he says, “are some of the few records I could find pertaining to the First Bangalore Pioneers. Names. Dates. Deaths. Photographs of the four surviving members.”

“Four, out of how many?” Sherlock asks.

“Thirty-four, at the time of their dissolution,” Mycroft replies.

“Only four remaining. Injuries? Or suicides, like David Okoro?” Sherlocks hands are thrumming with impatience against the table.

“An unusual number of suicides.” But Mycroft is looking at John as he says it. “The survival rate for returned soldiers has always been distressingly bad, I’m afraid. This was worse.”

John nods, and because Sherlock has his head cocked to one side, he lays it out for him. “He’s right. It’s all too common. Debilitating injury. Chronic illness, like Gulf War Syndrome.  Coming back, and...not being able to fit in again; with other people, or simply with the way the world works. Survivor’s guilt. PTSD.”

“And the soldiers who commit suicide while enlisted?” Mycroft asks.

“More of the same. Seeing terrible things. Doing terrible things. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Not...fitting in with the rest of the men. Soldiers aren’t always the best-adjusted people to begin with. There’s the usual mixture of good and bad, and everyone’s boxed up together, under pressure. And then things keep happening to shake the box.”

Mycroft reaches into his attache case and withdraws a slim folder. “Fourteen years ago, something did happen, something that has been excised quite thoroughly from records at the MOD. The best I’ve been able to glean from the remaining documentation was that an operation resulted in a very large number of civilian deaths. For the moment, let us disregard the location. Shortly afterwards, a man named Joseph Richardson committed suicide in barracks, and five officers died in an accidental explosion. A munitions fire. Immediately afterwards, the remaining members of the regiment were recalled for medical treatment unspecified, and subsequently discharged. Over the course of the next year, David Okoro was removed to the facility I mentioned, and two others committed suicide.”

He opens the folder and removes a sheet of paper from it, and hands it to his brother. “These are the original thirty-four names. I’ve included dates and cause of death where I could.” 

He removes a second sheet, one without text, and hands it to John, who is surprised to receive it before Sherlock. “These are the four survivors. Bear in mind that these photographs were taken at least fourteen years ago.”

John looks them over: three men and one woman. “Sherlock,” he says, urgently. It’s difficult to be completely certain, but the woman looks remarkably like the one who had waved them into Milverton’s back garden with a gun.

Sherlock reaches for the paper and scans it briefly. “Yes. That’s her. Different hair, softer face, but a slight asymmetry about the nose. It’s unmistakable.”

“She was the medical officer,” Mycroft remarks. “So that’s confirmed. And interesting, isn’t it, that she, too, has taken an interest in Milverton?”

“So what do you want from us?” Sherlock asks. “Clearly, there's a connection, but Moran is dead, Milverton is in custody for other crimes, and I very much doubt you’ll let him go now you’ve got him. No one lost any fingers this round. She entered an unlocked house with a gun, but she shot no-one and removed nothing.”

“Putting her actions on an even footing with yours, had John managed to remember his own gun,” Mycroft says drily. “I want definitive answers. I have Milverton, but he’s being remarkably unhelpful. I want to know what happened fourteen years ago, and why it was concealed, not only from the public, but from the government itself. I want the medical officer found, and I want to know why Moran’s death and Milverton’s return to blackmail brought her out of the woodwork. I want to know what happened to the remaining members of the Pioneers upon their return to England.”

Sherlock looks at him, appraisingly. “And most of all, you want to investigate without anyone else in government knowing about the investigation.”

“Fourteen years is an eternity in politics, but sometimes, it isn’t long enough. I’ll give you what I can, but I’ll need you to do some legwork. Start with finding her.”

Sherlock snorts. “If you’re right, there’s a chance she’ll find us first.”

“Then you’d better hope she leaves her gun at home.” 

“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. She didn’t shoot us before, and she had ample opportunity.”

“What’s her name?” John asks. “You didn’t say.”

Sherlock smirks. “Oh, that should be obvious, John.”

“Should it? There were at least two female names on that list.”

“Ah, but hers has no date of death. Better yet, it begins with the letter _M._ So it’s Marie Travers.”

“Yes.” And it’s clear that, brilliant as Mycroft Holmes might be, he has no idea why the two of them are laughing now.

“Okay, so she’s been associated with military malfeasance,” John says, once he can manage it. “That doesn’t mean she’s evil, herself.”

“Maybe just mildly malevolent,” Sherlock agrees.  

Mycroft has more documents, but if they’re of any use, John doesn’t see it. They aren’t allowed to keep them.

* * *

 Sherlock is piling everything back onto the table when John says, “Did you mean that, what you said about her finding us first?” 

“In a way. I was planning to help things along.”

“Were you.” John looks faintly alarmed at this prospect.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to put in a Missed Connections notice.”

John laughs. “Right, no. What would we say? _You had a gun and lovely brown eyes. We were two men committing burglary when you interrupted us. Sorry we forgot to ask your name, but we think we know it now, Marie. Contact us for an unforgettable evening of interrogation and more.”_

“I’m sure she’ll be chuffed you noticed her eye colour.  Try mentioning the gun model…or did you need my help with that?”

“I was joking, you git.” 

“Were you?” 

“Of course I was. What did _you_ mean?”

“Conspiracy theorists. On the internet. A few words in forums here and there, and she’s bound to take notice.”

“You’re on conspiracy forums." John shakes his head. "Of course you are. Why? Do you troll them for fun?”

Sherlock doesn’t mention that he’d spent a good year reading them for personal reasons. Yes, perhaps he _had_ contributed his own remarks here and there... Pointing out logical inconsistencies, making corrections to grammar and spelling. “You’d be surprised what you can find. They're largely paranoid fantasists, but they’re not always wrong.”

John frowns. “But what makes you think she’d read that sort of thing?”

“Imagine you, or someone you care about, had been wronged. That there had been a massive coverup. Wouldn't you want to know what was being said?”

“Of course I would.” John’s frown deepens, until his forehead is positively crinkled with it. “And actually, Sherlock, I did, you know.”

“Did what?”

“Poked around. While you were dead.”

“Ah.” 

“Surprising what can come to light.” John rubs at the back of his neck. “Apparently, _you_ know some interesting people.”

“Occupational hazard. Unimportant. This Marie Travers... If, in fact, that is the name she’s using now. I wonder.  Do you think she’s keeping tabs on the Pioneers? What about you, John? Do you keep in touch with the soldiers you patched up, back in the war?”

“Not as much as I should. It’s…Well. It’s awkward, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

John sighs. “Bad memories. Difficult truths. You can’t save everyone.”

“No one can. I’m sure you did your best,” Sherlock says, but it sounds patronising, even to his own ears. Mycroft’s school governor impression seems to be rubbing off. It’s irritating. 

“Sometimes that doesn’t matter. Sometimes there are men and women who’ve lost their arms and legs and _faces,_ Sherlock. You tell them they’ll be fine, and you know that it’s a lie. I mean, yes, I suppose I should look more of them up, now that I’m out. I don’t.”

“Do you think she does?”

“What?”

“Marie Travers. Do you think she talks to the other three?”

John pulls at the fraying sleeve of his jumper. It looks like suppressed guilt. “If what Mycroft says is true, we have no idea what happened. Whatever it was, it’s bound to be worse than anything I’ve ever seen. So I don’t know. But…fourteen years, Moran is dead, and now she’s suddenly at Milverton’s with a gun? Yeah. I think maybe she does.”

“Something to think about. You do that, and I’ll resurrect some old accounts," Sherlock says, cracking his knuckles. 

* * *

 

Sherlock spends the rest of the evening flat out on the sofa with his laptop propped against his ribs. His exuberant typing speed and occasional muttered remarks suggest he’s enlisted himself in a flamewar.

John immediately erases his own internet browser history, although he knows that Sherlock can get past that safeguard if he’s feeling determined. Why should he, though? John had simply stumbled onto a bit of old history, which might or might not be distressing. Now that he’s well, he has better things to do than stalk someone who could be, for all he knows, just another publicity-seeking internet nutter. 

An internet nutter, to be fair, that Sherlock seems to have known rather well at some point. That’s the problem. John has spent all day carefully not thinking about the man on the radio, and now, here he is, back again. A nagging presence. 

John frowns, and virtuously feeds Google some search terms to show he’s working. _Military medical coverup_ ought to do the job. Lots to scroll through there, and he can do his own share of derisive snorting at the results. It’s very nearly cosy.

“Mutual mockery of morons,” he says experimentally, after a few pages and several audible hisses from Sherlock.

He looks up at this. “Is the M thing going to become a problem, John?”

“God, no. I was just...looking at another sort of conspiracy theorist. Thought I’d try the medical angle.” 

“I’ll admit, it’s not your worst idea.”

“Oh, thanks for that. No, I mean it, but these ones are just as bad as your _Shadow Government is the New World Order_ people. Going on about super-soldiers and top-secret biological weapons.”

“Baskerville,” Sherlock reminds him. “Maybe they’re not so stupid as you’d like to believe.”

John shudders. “Okay, bad example. Honestly, though, most of the stuff they’re obsessing over can be put down to insufficient knowledge or tragic mistakes. Things like drug interactions. Unexpected toxins. Mutating viruses or bacteria. Nature. But I’m pretty sure no one actually sat down and designed MRSA or HIV. Some of these people actually think someone did.”

“Never underestimate the power of wilful human ignorance, John." 

“Seriously. They claim to be the target of political conspiracies, but they’re the ones making things worse for everyone else. Like anti-vaxers and the people who want to ban contraceptives.”

“Well, if I’m to believe what I’ve just read, lizard men disguised as world leaders are bound to drag us all down into the centre of the earth at any moment, aided by military clones. So perhaps there won’t be any time to worry about the coming plague,” Sherlock says brightly.

“Someone said that?”

“Why? You don’t find that plausible? Pity. I was hoping I could persuade Mycroft to remove his human mask.”

“Ha! Offer him a dead mouse next time he pays us a visit.”

“A chocolate mouse would be just as effective.” Sherlock frowns. “The medical angle, though. There might be something in that, really.”

“Such as?”

“Testing drugs on soldiers. Amphetamines and the like.”

“I wouldn’t call that testing, Sherlock. It’s a controversial use, but not unknown. Just a matter of keeping people alert in a dangerous environment.” 

“With an increased potential for psychosis.”

“Oh, because that’s not already part of the experience? Bit difficult to separate that out. I mean, I’ve read the journals. Every other year someone stands trial for shooting people up and it comes out again. Not really cover-up material, though, is it? Maybe to the masses, but not to anyone who has ever spent two days without sleep under constant fire. More dramatic than a hopped-up lorry driver, but still.” 

“Interesting. I should have thought you'd take a stronger stance. What about it, then? Ever tried a bit of speed?”

“No,” John says, keeping his tone even. “I’ll admit I’ve been tempted. But I needed steady hands to do my job, and I wasn’t willing to risk it when there were safer options. Cold water. Caffeine. What about you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Yes. I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise.”

“No,” John sighs. “It doesn’t.” 

“You’re right, though,” Sherlock says, after a contemplative pause. “Ultimately, I found the side effects unacceptable.”

“And were they permanent?”

“No. Not discernibly.” John can hear his teeth clicking together. “Slightly altered neural pathways, perhaps. I’ve done worse.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I know.” 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A locked room mystery. John has a mission.

Days pass without any new information. Sherlock, true to form, becomes restless. Denied intellectual stimulation, he begins poking at John. He starts off with seemingly random questions about his military service: the daily routine and social dynamics. Eventually, though, the questions take on a discomfiting specificity. 

It isn’t the first time they’ve alluded to John’s time in Afghanistan. Various items have surfaced before, but John had not described his final injury in any detail. Sherlock knows he’d been shot. He knows that it was nearly fatal. Until now, he’d been gratifyingly respectful of John’s desire not to address it. For example, he’d always handled the issue of John’s scar with an unexpected grace.

When John first moved into the flat, he had taken great pains to hide his healing scar. It was reasonably easy to avoid catching sight of it himself. The ugliest portions were only visible if he deliberately looked over his own shoulder into the mirror, so this was something he avoided doing. He slept in a shirt and pants, and when he showered, he hung his dressing gown on the back of the door, ready for a rapid transition out of his towel. There was no telling when or where Sherlock might see fit to barge in on him, and John preferred to avoid becoming yet another medical curiosity to him. He’d suffered more than enough of that at the hands of other doctors.

Also, during this phase, John’s dating technique was still rusty enough that the likelihood of anyone else being in a position to see the scar was minimal. So it continued to heal, largely unobserved, and somewhere along the way, John had simply stopped caring. He couldn’t even identify the moment when it no longer felt important to shield this particular detail from his flatmate’s scrutiny. Exit wounds were no great mystery to Sherlock, after all, although the ones he typically examined were terminal in every sense. By the time he finally caught John shirtless in the hallway one morning, it was surprisingly anticlimactic. He didn’t pause, didn’t stare, just glanced at the back of John’s shoulder, looked away, and carried on dispensing the steady flow of words he’d begun earlier through the closed bathroom door.

Now, as John answers question after question about the injury, about his memories of the aftermath, it occurs to him that he’d really rather subject himself to the sort of ruthless visual inspection he’d originally expected from Sherlock. Because the scar, wealed and twisted though it is, no longer feels like wreckage. It’s still stark and obvious against his skin, but it’s no longer jarring to catch sight of its reflection, or to feel it in passing beneath his own fingers. He's fine with it. Talking about what happened when he acquired it is, apparently, something else altogether. 

“Can we just…stop?” John blurts out, partway through his litany of being shot, nearly dying, developing sepsis, and nearly dying again (but this time, in hospital). He is beginning to feel as if he is suffocating. Suddenly his pulse is jittering in his throat, irregular and quick. His hands are cold.

Sherlock halts his line of questioning immediately. He stares at John, and it isn’t necessarily an improvement. “This is making you uncomfortable,” he states. 

John swallows, and clenches his fists under the table. "Glad you caught that."

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, and now a faint line is etched between his brows. “I’ve been asking you to describe a traumatic event. I should have considered your feelings.”

“Oh, for god’s sake. Don’t patronise me, Sherlock.” John is dismayed to hear the cracks in his own voice.

“I’m not,” he says. “It isn’t as if you hadn’t told me. I was being inconsiderate. I understand it can take years—”

John cuts him off. “To get over it? To become _comfortable_ with the memory? It _has_ been years. And most of the time, I am absolutely fucking _fine.”_

Sherlock frowns. “Yes, of course you are. You’re certainly better off than you were when I met you. No thanks to that incompetent therapist.” 

“She _was_ rubbish,” John agrees, grudgingly. 

“They usually are. They think talking is a viable solution.”

“Isn’t it?”

“God, no,” Sherlock snorts. “Certainly not for you. How many times did you lie to her?”

John’s mouth twitches, despite himself. “Loads.”

“There you are, then. Talk therapy is based on the absurd notion that the patient _needs_ to immerse himself in remembered misery. To focus only on himself. It’s a flawed model. Also a brilliant way to maintain clientele.”

“But I think some people do find it useful to discuss their emotions in a safe environment. I mean, Harry--” 

“You’re not one of them,” Sherlock interjects. 

“No. I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I'm right. The only useful suggestion that woman ever made was that you write a blog.”

“Yeah, well. I’m fairly sure she wouldn’t approve of the content.”

“What do you care? You’re not writing it for her.”

“At the moment, I’m not writing it for anyone,” John reminds him. “One of these days, you really ought to take a case I’m allowed to describe. The last few entries look like a censored letter from a war zone. Readers are complaining.”

“You can blame my brother for that.”

“Oh, I do.”

Sherlock’s mouth turns up a little at this. “I wish he’d do his own legwork for a change. His paranoia is stalling this investigation.”

“Do you think it’s unfounded?”

“Probably not, under the circumstances. But it’s maddening. Of course, there’s a faint possibility I’ve been going about this all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“The medic. There's something...” Sherlock closes his eyes as if the light offends him. “I need to think about this.”

John waits for a few minutes, and when no further information is forthcoming, he goes out for a walk. Much to his disappointment, it is completely uneventful. 

* * *

When Sally Donovan contacts them, later that day, it comes as a relief to both of them.

“This looks promising,” Sherlock says to John, reaching for his coat. “A classic locked room scenario.”

“Really.” 

“Locked cottage, anyway,” Sherlock corrects himself. “Two bodies. Donovan sounds annoyed.”

“Well, she would be,” John points out. “She’s had to get _you_ in.”

The crime scene looks like something painted on a chocolate box. It isn’t just the absurdly thatched cottage tucked away in the leafy back garden of a larger, more modern building, or even the little brown chickens poking through the grass. It’s the way the bodies (one male, one female) sit tucked into shabby twin armchairs, facing the wood stove as if settled in for a cosy evening. They’re both wearing slippers. 

This peaceful effect is somewhat spoiled by the broken window behind them. The neighbour—no, landlady—had taken a shovel to it when she found the door locked. 

“They hadn’t let the chickens out,” she says, by way of explanation. “I hammered at the door, and no one answered. But I could see they were in there, and I knew something was wrong. I smashed the window in. Then I rang for emergency services.”

She’s middle-aged, and solidly muscular. Sherlock looks at her square, scarred hands and the sawdust on her clothes and thinks _Carpentry?  Builder?_ Something in the rueful way she looks at the broken window and the splintered door frame suggests she’d built the cottage herself. Alone, by the looks of it, because if there is a current Mr. Davis, she hasn’t worn his ring in years. 

The victims are (were) in their early twenties, clad in chunky hand-knit jumpers. The young woman (Kirstie) has wispy blonde hair and large, multicoloured glass plugs punched through her ear lobes. Her companion (Brian) has a scraggly ginger beard and long, slightly tangled hair to match. Middle-class students, living out an agrarian fantasy in someone else’s suburban garden, then.

The earnestly folksy interior decor (Sherlock shudders) bears this out. There is a heavy emphasis on wobbly earthenware bowls, misshapen wicker baskets, lopsided candles, and strangely hairy macrame plant hangers. A handcrafted bookcase is stuffed with battered paperbacks. Sherlock glances at these long enough to take in a few of the titles, and groans. “Oh, for god’s sake! No it can’t, no they aren’t, and clearly _that_ has never worked for anyone.”

John raises a questioning eyebrow at this.

“DIY enthusiasts,” Sherlock says, darkly. “New Agers. Desperate optimism and fuzzy thinking distilled into a single badly constructed book case.”

At this, Sally Donovan appears, and steps neatly between them. Her crisp white blouse and sleek tailored skirt look completely out of place in this environment. “Forensics confirms the window statement,” she says, briskly. “Everything was sealed up tight before it was broken.” 

Forensics, represented in the person of an unfamiliar and painfully thin young man in thick glasses, takes one look at the consulting detective and develops a sudden, consuming interest in the soupy contents of the victims’ compost bucket. He’s no Anderson, Sherlock thinks, but this victory—if it is one—seems hollow.

“I’d have guessed a gas leak,” Donovan continues, “but they’ve only got a wood burning stove. Preliminary examination of the bodies showed no sign of external trauma.”

“So you said.” 

“Well, go on then. Tell me what we’ve missed.” Donovan’s arms are folded over her chest in challenge.

“We’ll start with the bodies. John?”

John glances at Donovan. It’s as if he’s seeking permission. 

“Gloves,” she says, pointedly, but nods.

John accepts a pair from the forensics officer for himself, and with an equally pointed look of his own, hands another pair to Sherlock.

Donovan doesn’t quite smile at this. She directs their attention to the table between the chairs. “They’d both had cups of cocoa. We’re testing the residue.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” Sherlock says.

John looks up from his position beside the young man’s chair, and agrees. “Oral poisoning’s usually a nasty business. Messier than this. I’m not saying this is tidy, exactly, but…”

Sally snorts. “Oh. You mean they don’t just fall over with little crosses on their eyes after drinking from the suspicious green bottle? Yeah, I know. What about a tranquilliser?”

“Possibly… I don’t think so, though.” John is peering underneath the man’s eyelids now. “Broken blood vessels.” 

He moves on to the young woman’s corpse, which looks a bit less peaceful than the man’s. Sherlock leans over his shoulder to watch as John examines her fingernails. They’re ragged, but clean. He can see that they’d etched faint, possibly convulsive tracks into the shabby velvet of the armrest. Her eyes are open and staring, brown and startlingly bloodshot.

John turns her hand over. The palm is heavily calloused, the marks suggesting repeated friction from a handled object. An axe, perhaps.

Sherlock’s eyes continue downwards, where fine splinters of wood clinging to her corduroy trousers confirm that theory. “Firewood,” he says.

Donovan looks at him. “Yes. We saw her hands. So she cut some wood, built a fire, and sat down for a nice cuppa. Then what?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “They died. Obviously. How long have you had this door open?”

She frowns. “Two hours. Mrs. Davis couldn’t reach the deadbolt through the window, and they’d just the one key. Jensen popped the lock when we arrived.”

He sniffs at the air. It smells of wood smoke, primarily. Somewhat acrid. “A broken window. An open door. Plenty of time for an airborne toxin to dissipate, then.” 

“So you _do_ think they suffocated.”

Sherlock stares down at the girl’s hand, pale and small against John’s blue nitrile fingers. “Anaphylaxis?”

John makes a humming sound, largely to himself. “That would look the same, yeah. Probably not a bee sting, given they’re indoors, but I suppose there are plenty of other things that could have done it. Something ingested. Something inhaled…” He turns her hand again, this time pushing up her sleeve. “Oh.” He stops, and looks up at Sherlock. “Look at that,” he says, pointing out the line of small clear blisters marring the skin of the victim’s inner arm. “I’m not a dermatologist, but I would call that an allergic reaction.” 

“How bad?”

John shrugs. “Moderate. I’d send her off with a steroid cream, if she were a patient.” He moves back to the other body, and conducts a similar search. “Nothing here, though.”

Sherlock takes his place beside the girl and notes the blisters’ position: linear, horizontal, and situated at least an inch above her wrist. _Clean hands._ _Blisters in the gap before the sleeves._ He steps back and scans the room. It doesn’t take long to find what he is looking for. There’s a pair of worn and filthy leather gloves wadded onto the blue ceramic tile beside the wood stove. A few logs, inexpertly hewn, rest beside them in a basket. “Where did the firewood come from?” Sherlock asks Donovan. 

She shrugs. “You’re the one who said she cut it herself.” 

“Yes. But where did it come from? Somewhere on this property?”

Donovan tilts her head. “I’ll check.” She steps outside the cottage to confer with Mrs. Davis, who is already engaged in quiet conversation with another police officer just beyond the broken window.

Sherlock looks down into the basket, and gingerly pokes at the logs with his index finger. There’s a scrap of something shining and green tucked between two of them. A leaf. Of course. “John.”

“Yeah?” He’s clearly bemused by Sherlock’s sudden interest in firewood.

“Get your phone out. I’d rather not touch mine.”

“What for?”

“Wikipedia,” Sherlock says, and straightens up again, the leaf pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He can see several more trapped beneath the logs. 

John pulls his gloves off, and takes out his phone. “What am I looking up?”

Sherlock peers down over his shoulder. “Poison ivy.” 

John looks up at him with a crinkled brow, and then obediently thumbs in his search. Sherlock doesn’t have to ask him to zoom in on the photo that accompanies the article. “That’s an American plant, though. Isn’t it?”

“Scroll down?” Sherlock glances down at the screen, and nods. “Invasive in the United Kingdom. Yes. That’ll do.” He drops the leaf back into the basket and carefully peels his own gloves off, taking care not to let their contaminated exterior surfaces touch his skin. “Looks like we’ve finished here.” 

Donovan must have returned while they were talking. “What do you mean, finished?”

“The wood,” Sherlock prompts, dropping his bundled gloves on the floor. 

“There’s a heap of it down at the end of the garden. They’d been clearing brush.” 

“Without much previous experience,” Sherlock suggests. 

“Yes. Mrs. Davis had to teach them how to use an axe, she said.”

“Pity she didn’t teach them a bit more about basic woodcraft. You’ll want to send someone down there, but I think you’ll find they were chopping up poison ivy along with their firewood. I found a few leaves in the basket with the logs.”

“Poison ivy? You’ve got to be joking. They clearly didn’t scratch themselves to death.”

“It’s the oil in the leaves that does it,” Sherlock says. “Urushiol. Touch it, and yes, it irritates the skin. Burn it, and the smoke does much the same thing to lungs. In a poorly-ventilated environment, it was fatal.”

John nods. “The leaves do look pretty distinctive, Sally. The girl has little blisters all along her wrist where her glove didn’t cover her skin, too.” 

“So that’s that, is it? Accidental death.” She doesn’t look pleased. She ought to. They’ve solved it in a matter of minutes.

“Disappointed? That’s uncharacteristically ghoulish of you, Sally,” Sherlock says.

John coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like suppressed laughter, and follows him away towards the door, but Donovan blocks their path. “Wait! We’re not finished.”

“Why? It’s all perfectly clear. Get Pathology on it, and you’ll see I’m right.” 

She sighs. “Paperwork?”

“Best left to you, I think. You’re so much better at it.” Sherlock flashes her a little smile, carefully calculated to be only mildly infuriating, and adds, _“Do_ let me know when you’ve got something that is genuinely worth my time.”

* * *

 The next morning, Sherlock is gone. John doesn’t think much of it, until he receives a text from him around noon.

_Try Hyde Park._

**What the hell are you talking about? Where are you, anyway?**

_Marie Travers._

**You think she’s in Hyde Park, and you want me to go there?**

_Good. Yes._

**Now?**

_Yes, now._

**Where are you?**

_Not important. Can you do it?_

**Fine. Which end? It’s huge.**

_Italian Gardens._

John takes the Tube and disembarks at Lancaster Gate. It’s a relief not to be headed towards the Arch, or rather, the place where it used to be. For a moment, he had feared that that was Sherlock’s intention.

It’s not the nicest day for a walk, but at least it isn’t actively raining. John decides he might as well do a loop of the fountains. There aren’t very many people out today, which probably improves his chances of spotting her. Unfortunately, Marie Travers isn’t the sort of person he’s likely to recognise from a great distance. She’s shorter than him, a few shades darker, and she has longish black hair.  It isn’t very helpful.

John wanders up and down for forty-five minutes, becoming increasingly bored, hungry, and cold. He’s also beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable with his task. After all, he’s essentially having to walk up to every small, vaguely Asian-looking woman he sees in order to get a closer look. Eventually, someone is bound to notice what he’s doing and get the wrong idea. John would really rather not be mistaken for a stalker or a rapist. Particularly not while he’s got a gun concealed in his jacket.

He scowls at one of the blank-eyed stone nymphs pouring something that might be an amphora into a fountain. Her bosom is streaked with moss, and one of her arms is missing a hand. Despite this, her expression is a damned sight friendlier than those of the last few human women he’s had to approach. Frankly, this entire exercise is starting to resemble an extended metaphor for John’s general lack of success with women. And this time, he can definitely blame Sherlock. That thought prompts him to send a text to the man in question, but he doesn’t answer. John hopes he isn’t doing something ridiculous, but “not important” could mean almost anything. He could be anywhere, really. Just not here.

John does another loop, and Sherlock still isn’t responding to his texts. John says some uncomplimentary things about him under his breath, and decides to pack it in. He’s walking back towards Lancaster Gate when he suddenly realises he isn’t walking alone. There is someone just behind him. He turns, and nearly jumps out of his skin, because of course it’s _her_. “Fuck!” he says, and that’s definitely not a very good foot to start things off on, at all.

Marie Travers has her long hair tucked into a baseball cap, and she’s wearing a baggy brown jacket. John realises, with a sinking feeling, that he’d already walked past her several times. She’d been standing by the water with her back to the path, but he had mistaken her for a young man from behind. Now he feels like an idiot. Her expression suggests she agrees with this assessment. They stand there, staring at each other in silence for several seconds. 

Eventually she says, “Well. Looks like the dog didn’t take your face off after all.” Her voice is low, and ordinarily, John would describe it as nice, or possibly even (god forbid) sexy. 

Just now, though, this is the furthest possible thing from his mind. “Yeah. Thanks,” he says. “Just so you know, we’re on even ground this time.” 

Her face is quite blank, so he clarifies his statement. “I mean, I’ve got a gun. Also.” 

“Ah.” She studies him, and slowly drops her arms, which had been folded over her chest. “I don’t. Actually.”

“Oh.” _This is going swimmingly,_ he thinks. On the other hand, he’s not sure he can fuck things up any further, so he says “Your name is Marie.”

She nods. Her stance is relaxed, but in a way that suggests she’s not particularly bothered by John’s admission about the gun. To be fair, she could probably do him some serious damage before he managed to get it out. Not that it need come to that. He certainly hopes that it will not. 

He’s not sure how much of this thought process is apparent in his face, but she finally takes pity on him. “You’ve been looking for me.”

“I…Yes. Yes, I was.”

“Why?”

“Why? Honestly? You broke into a house—“

“The door was open.”

“Fine. The point is, you shouldn’t have been there.”

“Neither should you. Or your friend.”

“That’s debatable. Anyway, you had a gun. That tends to make a pretty strong first impression.”

“I was hoping it would.” She sighs. “On Milverton. You weren’t supposed to be there.”

“Believe me, I’m beginning to feel the same way.” John is losing sight of his goal altogether now. What was he supposed to be doing, exactly? Oh. “Never mind us. Why were _you_ there?”

“Charles Milverton is a blackmailer. He was after a friend of mine. Someone had to stop him.”

“You couldn’t leave it for the police?”

“No.”

John nods. “This friend,” he suggests. “Would he happen to be someone you served with?”

Her face had become increasingly animated over the course of their conversation (or argument, really). Now it’s gone blank again. “I don’t think that’s something you need to know.”

John isn’t sure what to say to this. Especially once she adds, “I’d prefer you stay away from my friends, after what you did to the last one you met.”

He can feel his hands going cold. It seems their footing is very even indeed, if she knows who he is and what he’d done to Sebastian Moran.

“I know why you did it,” she says. “And I… I can’t entirely blame you for having done it. But if you think there was no…no _cost_ attached to his death, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t. Think that, I mean.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“Not very well,” John agrees. “Certainly not as well as I thought. Of course, he wasn’t calling himself Sebastian when we met. When we were friends. All that came out later. After the Arch.”

Marie sighs. “What did he call himself, then?”

“Bill Richardson.”

"Oh."

None of this is going anywhere useful, so John decides to go for complete honesty. If the Holmes brothers have a problem with that, they can bloody well lump it. “Look, I know I’m probably the very last person you want to talk to. Particularly after I shot your friend. Granted, he was trying to kill one of mine at the time. But apparently, somehow it’s all tied up with Milverton, who is not at all a nice man. Also, Jim Moriarty, who… Well. If anything, he was worse. And your friend worked for him. He--no. The thing is, someone’s asked us to look into this whole mess. Milverton, Sebastian Moran, and the Bangalore Pioneers. David Okoro. You. And this person can’t tell us very much at all. Just that something very bad happened to you all, and it was covered up by the MOD. I don’t know what it was, and I can’t claim to understand why Sebastian Moran did what he did afterwards. Any of it, really. But I do know he went after Milverton, and years later, so did you. There’s got to be a connection.”

She studies him for a moment, and then she says, quietly, “There is.”

“Right. Well. The thing is, you’re probably the only person who can help us now. And maybe you won’t believe this, but I think we’re on the same side. Unless you work for Moriarty. You don't, do you?”

Marie shoves her hands into her pockets. “No. What's your side?”

“Not Milverton’s. But also not…the government’s.”

“Say I talk to you. What’s the point? What’s going to happen?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe it all comes out. Maybe whatever it was never happens again.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” John says, bleakly. “Just…I think it’s important. And I think maybe something is owed you. All of you, even him.”

“Sebastian.” 

“Yeah.” 

She looks at him for a very long time, and then she nods. “The thing is, it’s not my choice to make. Not entirely. So, I’ll have a word with my friends. Maybe I’ll find you again. Maybe I won’t.”

“Okay,” John says. “I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t planning anything in the meantime. With the gun.”

She gives him a strange little smile, then. “Keep Milverton locked up, and I won’t have any reason.”

“I don’t think he’s going anywhere,” John assures her. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“No. You can’t. I almost want to trust you, John, but I’m not certain that I should.”

“Fair enough.”

“Funny thing, though. Before I knew who you were, I almost think I could have.”

Then she turns, and walks away. John watches her go. That's when it occurs to him that he never had told her his name. 

He texts Sherlock again. 

**I’ve met her. Not sure if it helped.**

_Good._

**She knows who we are now. She found me first.**

_Did she. Interesting._

**That’s all you have to say?**

_Busy._

**When are you coming home?**

There’s a very long pause, before the answer arrives: _Tomorrow. Late._

John has never been so tempted to fling his phone into a fountain. 

**Where ARE you?**

There’s no response to his question. John is surging with a heady mixture of adrenaline, anger at Sherlock for leaving him out of the loop again, and what is almost certainly mild hypoglycaemia. He’d missed breakfast, and he’s well on his way to missing lunch. And for what?   
****

Probably very little. He’s not sure what Sherlock’s playing at, but he cannot help but feel used. Worse yet, he feels that he has somehow failed a challenge he didn’t know he was being set.

He begins walking blindly, back towards Lancaster Gate, but then he keeps going. Eventually, he finds himself on the Edgeware Road. He might as well find a restaurant while he’s out, so he does. It’s a little French café, called _La Chauve-souris Dorée._ The name seems somehow familiar, although John’s French skills are abysmal. The important thing is, they seem to be serving lunch, and there isn’t much of a crowd. He pushes open the door, and then he stops. 

There’s a man seated at the bar, and down on the floor beside him, a dog. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The Pont Neuf, in all its many incarnations, was once the nerve centre of Paris. Pickpockets, murderers, and mountebanks plied its span for centuries, but now they’ve been replaced by pigeons, tourists, and slow-moving vehicles. Sherlock finds this disappointing.

He’s walking across it now, and he can see her from quite some distance away, golden hair and sky-blue coat gleaming against the stained and weathered stone. If he believed in such sentimental nonsense, he’d compare her to a flower. Something singular and solitary.

Something out of place. 

When he steps in behind her, he’s very quiet, but she knows he’s there. He can tell by the angle of her head, inclined a touch too casually away, as she continues to look out across the water. 

“Bluebells,” he remarks, after minutes of unrelieved silence. “And cinnamon.” He stands beside her now, gloved hands resting lightly against the railing.

“Yes. Too much?” She glances up at him, and her eyes are very wide, very blue, and very young. The unspoiled dewiness of her skin and the soft pinkness of her lips owe just as much to art as nature, but most people wouldn’t see that level of detail. 

“Not my area of expertise, although I can identify the fragrance, and possibly the dress. Yes. Sweet. Soft. Stupid. First name ending in an A?”

“Eleanor,” she corrects him. “But it was very nearly Angela.”

“Go with the first one. Angela would have required surgery.”

Irene frowns, rather prettily. This expression differs from those he remembers in her previous repertoire. “So glad you approve. It’s the one on my passport.”

“One of your passports.”

“Yes. I have four, if you’re counting.”

“I have more.”

“I’m sure that brings you great satisfaction when you’re all alone at night.”

He smirks at this. “The new you needs a breathier voice.”

“It’s working on everyone else. You don’t count.”

“I’m not everyone else. What does he think? I hear he’s got his own castle. Does it have a tower?”

“If it does, I haven’t seen it.”

“Ah. You should check that. Eleanor.” 

She laughs. “I’m assured there’s a back door and a secret tunnel. If you’re concerned about my safety.”

“I’m not.”

Her left hand slips out of her coat pocket and comes to rest lightly over his glove. “You say the sweetest things.”

The violet-tinted sapphire set into her ring is very small, very subtle, and very expensive. Sherlock studies it for a few seconds, and says, “That’s capable of leaving quite a mark.”

“I can always take it off.”

“Many people do. Generally, for somewhat different reasons than yours.”

“Good, though, isn’t it? My fiancé has exceptional taste.”

“Ah, yes. This is where I’m meant to say, _Of course he has. He’s got you,”_ Sherlock puts in, drily. “That would be ridiculous for at least three reasons.”

Irene takes her hand away, then, but not before she delivers a parting slap to the back of his glove. “I _did_ set that up very neatly.”

“Eleanor doesn’t flirt.”

“This hardly counts as flirting. And I might as well have my fun while I still can.”

“Oh, I expect you’ll have more than enough _fun,”_ Sherlock says. “But when it all goes wrong, don’t expect me to fix it for you.”

“I don’t need you to. I’ve got friends.”

“Friends? Or tractable people with inconvenient secrets?”

Irene sighs, and turns to lean against the bridge railing. He has forgotten how small she is. “Can’t they be both?”

“No.”

“Or neither? As it happens, I’m paying off a debt.”

“You told me you hadn’t any. Beyond the one.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I lied.”

“So you’re in it for the money.”

“It’s more complicated than that. Oh, I like money. Who doesn’t? I also like breathing. This is my insurance.”

“Moriarty’s dead. Moran is dead. So, in a sense, are you. What debt can you possibly have?”

“Oh, my dear. Now you’re being stupid. Everything’s interconnected, but you’re looking at it wrong way round.”

He frowns until the answer arrives. “Mycroft? My brother? This is _recompense_ for the Bond Air debacle?”

Irene shrugs. “I told him it was only a matter of time before you worked it out. Actually, I told him that the first time.”

“The first time. This is the second assignment.” Sherlock leaks air through his teeth. “Karachi was the first. Of course it was. That thimblerigging bastard! That’s why John was subjected to that idiotic charade.”

“What about John?”

“It’s not important.” He straightens up, and shoves his hands into his pockets. It’s a good thing Mycroft’s neck is located safely across the Channel. “My _brother_ sent you to Karachi. You failed to mention that.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, it went wrong, and then you became involved. I’m afraid he didn’t like that very much.”

“He never does, unless it’s his own doing.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure he meant me to survive that, so I cheated. I contacted you.”

“You mean you wasted my time. If Mycroft had wanted you dead, he’d have let the Americans have you from the start.”

“Point,” Irene concedes. “Or perhaps he was relying upon you to get me out, because he knows you.”

“So I suppose you’ve told him about our little chats.”

“Certainly. I was helpful. That’s given me leverage. This assignment is ever so much nicer. I only have to promise to go away.”

“Forgive me if I’ve missed something, but you appear to be a glorified mail-order bride,” Sherlock says, bluntly. “Bound for a country with a very unstable economy. Or does the thrill of espionage somehow compensate for the indignity?”

“Oh, I think you’ll find there’s historical precedent. I’ll establish a salon. Opera soirées and dancing girls.” 

Sherlock snorts. “John recently referred to you as Mata Hari’s evil sister. Spot on.”

“Did he? But I’ll be working _for_ the British government. Still, I’ll take that as a compliment. You ought to thank him nicely on my behalf. I can offer you suggestions, if you like.”

Sherlock skips over this. “She wasn’t a very good spy, though, was she? She was executed, and her head was embalmed and displayed in the Musée d'Anatomie Delmas-Orfila-Rouvière.”

“Mata Hari’s head?”

“Yes. And then it was stolen, in the 1950s.”

“If I’m caught and beheaded, will you promise to steal mine?”

That’s precisely the sort of remark that makes Irene so difficult to explain: to John, or even to himself. Sherlock studies her face, and it’s less pinched without the severe red lipstick he remembers, but the sharp angles, the teeth, are still there. So, he suspects, is the whip hand. He doesn’t answer.

Her present smile is very much at odds with the new façade. “You needn’t say anything now. You did come to Paris, after all. I’m flattered. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“It was convenient.”

“To something else? A case?”

“Yes. But that’s finished, or I wouldn’t be here now.”

“Lovely. What’s next on the agenda? Does it include me?”

“It might. Are you familiar with the catacombs?”

“What, all the skeletons under the city? They do a tour. I’ve never been.”

“The tour is rubbish. I know a better way into the tunnels.” He looks at her, in her fraudulent floral dress, and makes it a challenge. “You’ve stated your position on ruins. Where do you stand on bones?”

Irene laughs. “I could say something indelicate, but I’ll spare you. Should I agree to come along, I have two stipulations.”

“And those are…?”

“First, a change of dress. These shoes won’t stand up to much. And afterwards…”

“Yes?”

“Dinner.” 

* * *

John pauses just inside La Chauve-souris Dorée, and wonders whether he’s about to lose his nerve. There was a reason the name on the sign had looked so familiar. This is Ned’s cafe. Ned, surname unknown, who must be Victor Trevor’s boyfriend, based on what John has gleaned from reading his blog. It shouldn’t be surprising to see him here, yet he hesitates.

He isn’t sure why this feels like a transgression. Sherlock has never had much to say about his past. How much of that stems from a desire for privacy? He never mentions his childhood, but Mycroft lets things slip, and over time, John had gathered that their parents are dead. John isn’t particularly eager to discuss his own family, so he’s never pursued it. Presumably, Sherlock received an education of some kind, but this, too, is something he’s never felt the need to bring up. Sherlock’s voice suggests public school, but his frequent and inexplicable gaps in common knowledge suggest—actually, John doesn’t know _what_ they suggest. Sebastian Wilkes and Victor Trevor, though: they’re solid proof that he attended university with other people.

John, who has pawed through Sherlock’s sock drawer, seen him wrapped in a sheet, found visible evidence of his drug use, and (worse) encountered him under the influence, still baulks at questioning the friend of Sherlock’s youth. Naturally, this is when his mobile chooses to spring into buzzing activity. Someone is finally answering his texts.

One of them, at any rate.

 _Paris,_ it says. That’s all.

And oh, that’s just _typical,_ isn’t it? Sherlock’s popped off to another bloody country, and it never even occurred to him to say he was going. Just, _Go meet this woman in a park. No reason. I’ll see you tomorrow._

John’s hungry, and he’s angry, and he shouldn’t (very possibly) be doing any of it, but once he commits to walking into the restaurant, he doesn’t simply take a table. No, he goes directly to the bar, and he plonks himself down beside Victor Trevor and his dog.

He orders a pint, because he deserves one, and is looking over the menu when a soft voice beside him says, “If you’re hungry, I’d suggest the cassoulet.” The radio presenter’s long, pale fingers are wrapped around a glass of red wine, and it’s disconcerting the way he turns to John, almost as if he can see him. “The garlic sausage is very good.”

“Thanks,” John says, and he does order the cassoulet, if only because he’s too hungry to make any sense of the menu. His pint arrives, and it’s so refreshing, he gets halfway through it before common sense kicks in and he sets it down to await the arrival of his meal. 

His neighbour speaks again at the sound of glass on wood. “Difficult day, was it?” 

“Very.” John looks up and studies Victor Trevor’s face. There really isn’t any reason not to.

Admittedly, there’s something about him that compels the eye, something that goes beyond good bone structure or a pleasant expression, although he has both. It’s an air of carelessness with something very different hidden underneath. Something intense. It’s a little unsettling.

John doggedly tries to assess him as he imagines Sherlock might do, but he doesn’t come to any solid conclusions. Victor Trevor’s hair curls in a way that initially looks artless, but on closer examination, requires work to maintain. His clothes are soft and worn, but in a way that suggests considerable expense. _Someone had very carefully matched the blue of his shirt to his eyes,_ John thinks. Ned, probably. 

John takes another drink, and then he says, “I hope this isn’t rude, but… You’re on the radio.”

“Ah," Victor says, tilting his head. "You’ve recognised my voice. Impressive. I’d only spoken a few words to you. Or have we met before?”

“No. Not—I mean, I’ve listened to your travel programme. Quite a bit. It’s rather good.” 

“Oh? That’s a relief. If you hadn’t enjoyed it, I’d feel obliged to pretend I was someone else.”

John feels unnerved, but at least he can be honest about his listening habits. “No need.”

“That’s good to hear.” The presenter smiles warmly and extends his hand to John. “I’m Victor. Victor Trevor, but there’s no need to bother with any of that. And you are?”

It would be easy to lie, but he does not. “John Watson,” he says, and makes his handshake brisk and firm.

Victor raises an eyebrow at this, and immediately releases his hand. _“A_ John Watson, or _the_ John Watson? It’s a common name. Or perhaps it’s no coincidence, us meeting here.”

“I’m sorry?” This is moving much faster than anything John had anticipated.

“Does the name Sherlock Holmes mean anything to you?”

John looks at Victor, and he really has to remind himself that the other man isn’t looking back. “Maybe I should ask you the same thing.”

“Ah. That’s a question _and_ an answer. You are, then. The one with the blog.”

“Yes. You’ve… Sorry.  You’ve read it?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Hasn’t everyone?” 

“Sometimes, I begin to wonder.”

Victor swivels his seat to face him. “Well, then. What brings you to me now? It’s certainly taken you long enough.”

John gapes at him. “You’ve been expecting me? I hardly knew you existed, until I heard you on the radio. Then I read _your_ blog, and—I hadn’t planned to track you down today. I was only looking for something to eat. But I saw you sitting here, and I’ll admit, I have been curious.”

“Fair enough. I’m curious, myself. Few men could manage a life with Sherlock Holmes, and yet you have. You do. That makes you an enigma.”

This is a more complimentary accusation than the usual sort where his association with Sherlock is concerned. “I’m really not.” 

“Oh, but you are. Such an exciting life. All that adventure, and of course, he _is_ fascinating, isn’t he? Still, I imagine, extremely difficult to live with. You must be a very special sort of person. Unusually tolerant.” Victor takes a sip from his glass, and adds, speculatively, “I don’t know that I’d be capable of forgiving a lover who had faked his own suicide in front of me.”

John’s fresh mouthful of beer was ill-timed. He chokes. “What? No. Sherlock is my friend. _Only_ my friend, no matter what the papers say.”

“Ah.” Victor’s face goes politely blank at this. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I had leapt to the wrong conclusion. You did come to see me. I thought—”

“You thought I was checking up on his old friends?”

“Have I offended you? I apologise.”

“No.” John sighs. “No, it’s just that people always seem to—but we’re not. Honestly, though, it doesn’t matter.”

Victor nods. “Unusual friendships are easy to misinterpret. And Sherlock never did have many friends to begin with.”

“But you were one of them.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Not…as such,” John says, because it’s difficult to explain. “You did, in your blog. And I know your name holds some significance for him. What, I don’t know. Perhaps you could explain it.”

“Ah.” Victor spins the wine glass in his fingers, very slowly. “That’s all ancient history. I was only twenty when we… Well. If anything, I am surprised that he remembers me at all.”

“Sherlock only forgets things he feels he has no use for.”

“Yes. He really hasn’t told you anything, has he?” Victor smiles. It looks rueful. “Well, then. We met at university. Sherlock stepped on my dog, quite accidentally, and she bit him. Oddly enough, that made us friends. Neither one of us had very many of those.”

“Did you know Sebastian Wilkes?”

“Sebastian Wilkes…” He looks perplexed, and then amused. “Oh! Do you mean the awful neighbour? Yes. I remember hating him.”

“That’s a point in your favour,” John says. 

Victor laughs. “I should hope so. The Sebastian Wilkes I remember was an insufferable ass.”

“He’s a banker now. We did a case for him, and I must say, that’s kinder than anything I would choose to call him.” 

“Oh, yes. _The_ _Blind Banker._ I told you, I’ve read the blog. Catchy title. How _do_ you come up with these things?” 

“Now you sound like Sherlock.”

“Do I? That’s terrifying.” Victor laughs again. “Well. Something was bound to rub off, I suppose.”

“So you and Sherlock…?”

“Yes, we were friends.”

John blinks. “But you’re not, now? What happened? I assume something did.”

“Yes.” Victor sighs. “One would assume that, and inevitably, something did. If you want a brief summary, I suppose I could say that he discovered some distressing information about my family, and he shared it, in the bluntest possible way.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. _Oh.”_

John waits, and Victor continues after a sip of wine. _“_ I wasn’t born blind, if you were wondering. I was in an automobile accident when I was ten. My mother was driving. She spun off the road and hit a tree. I suffered brain damage. She died.”

“God,” John says. “I’m sorry.”

Victor’s mouth twists at one corner. “People so often are. That was one of the things I liked about Sherlock: he never apologised. I didn’t retain any memory of the accident, so it wasn’t something we had ever discussed in any depth. I say it wasn’t, but then Sherlock came to stay with me in Norfolk. My father brought it up, and I suppose it stuck inside his head. It was a difficult summer. My father had a series of heart attacks, and then he died. Sherlock attended his funeral, but it wasn’t until we’d returned to university that he told me he suspected murder.”

“Murder? He thought that someone had killed your father?”

“Funny you should put it that way. Sherlock believed that Richard Trevor, the man who’d raised me, the man I’d just seen _buried,_ was not my real father. Sherlock was convinced my mother had had an affair, and that I was the result.”

“I can see how that would be upsetting.”

“It was more than upsetting. He’d discovered my mother wasn’t the only person who had died in the accident. There was also a man in the passenger seat that no one had ever mentioned to me. Sherlock insisted that this man, a stranger, was my biological father.”

“That’s…a bit overwhelming. A lot to take in.”

“It got worse. My father—Richard Trevor, I mean—was something of a mechanic. Sherlock told me he must have known that my mother and this other man were running away together, that he must have done something to the car. That he’d murdered them.”

“Oh god,” John breathes. Knowing Sherlock as he is now—imagining Sherlock at…what? Twenty, perhaps—the odds were very much against him having delivered that information with any grace.

“Richard Trevor was a good man. He was my father, in every sense that mattered. And as I say, he’d only just died. In a way, it felt as if Sherlock had killed him all over again.”

“I’m sorry,” John says, uselessly.

“Why should you be? You’ve nothing to do with any of it. You don’t know me.”

“No, but I know Sherlock. I know exactly how thoughtless he can be. Not to excuse what he did, but sometimes, he doesn’t anticipate the impact of the things he says. He just opens his mouth and information comes out. He’s usually right, but that doesn’t make it less hurtful.”

“True. I admired his ability before I found myself on the wrong side of it. I’d formed a very idealised notion of Sherlock, of our friendship. That conversation shattered it completely.”

“Understandably. So you fell out.”

“Yes. He made his accusations, and I said some horrible things in return. Things I didn’t even believe. I suppose I wanted him to hurt as badly as I did.”

“I think that’s only human.”

“Perhaps,” Victor allows. “We were very young. I left for Australia soon afterwards, and I never heard from him again. Oh, I heard _of_ him, eventually. I found your blog and I read about your adventures together. And I wondered what it must be like, to be you. To have shared his life. To have seen him fall.”

John swallows. “Yeah. That’s… difficult to describe.”

“I expect it must be.” Victor’s voice is gentle, but John remembers what he’d written.

“But you—I saw what _you_ wrote after he died. I mean, I saw it recently. _I believe in Sherlock Holmes,_ you said. That’s what made me wonder what had happened; who he was to you, and why you cared so much what other people said about him.”

“Ah. It’s strange,” Victor says. “I hadn’t allowed myself to think of him for years, and suddenly, there he was, a public hero of sorts. He was doing the sorts of things he’d always wanted to do, the things I had believed him capable of, before my disillusionment. The stories I heard made me begin to question my own interpretation of the past. It wasn’t precisely forgiveness, what I felt, but it was an altered perspective. I did some research; more than the general public, it seems. Then the press turned against him, and it was like something out of Euripides. A tragedy. I felt I had to say something, to show them what they’d done.”

“I couldn’t,” John says, quietly. “I tried, but I never found the words.”

“I had a certain distance. I suspect that helps.”

John’s food arrives, then, and the conversation shifts away. Victor talks about his travels, specifically the things that never made it into the broadcasts, and some of it’s very funny. John eats and listens, and he still isn’t entirely sure what to make of it all. If anyone’s an enigma, it is Victor.

Eventually, Ned emerges from the back of the restaurant, and Victor performs brief introductions. He doesn’t mention John’s surname, or mention his connection to Sherlock. John wonders at this, but he doesn’t remark upon it.

Ned is small and dark and harried-looking. He smiles at John, then puts his hand on Victor’s back and says, “Sorry, love, but have you spoken to Jeanne about this weekend? She’s sent me a very confusing email.”

“I hadn’t, no. Should I?”

“Please. I have no idea what she’s going on about.”

“She’s your sister.”

“Yes, but she’ll actually listen to you.”

“Fine,” Victor says. “You’ll owe me for that.” 

“I know.” Ned squeezes his shoulder, nods to John, and retreats back into the kitchen.

Victor sighs. “Behold, my scintillating life. If I sounded envious before, it’s largely because I am.”

“He seems nice,” John ventures.

“Oh, he is. Terribly nice. Dreadfully reliable. Almost excruciatingly hard-working. But,” and here he drops his voice, conspiratorially, “sometimes, just sometimes, that also makes him insufferably dull.” 

“How long have you been together?” 

“Three years,” Victor says. “It’s something of a personal record for me. The travel helps, of course. Several times a year, I’m positively pleased to see him.” He makes a face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say such things. You’re virtually a stranger. I blame the wine.”

John twists at his napkin. “Ah, well. I suppose if there’s envy going, I could always mention that you’ve actually _got_ a stable relationship with someone. I haven’t had a girlfriend in ages. I used to blame Sherlock for that, but it’s probably my own fault.”

Victor laughs. “Right. My assumptions about the two of you were completely wrong.”

“Just a bit. I suppose it doesn’t help me that everyone else tends to come to that sort of conclusion.”

“What does Sherlock have to say about it?”

“Nothing, really. I don’t think he cares what anyone thinks. When I first met him, he told me he considered himself married to his work. Best I can tell, that’s all he’s ever made time for. If we weren’t flatmates, I’d probably never see him.”

“Ah,” Victor muses. “Of course. Murder trumps everything else.”

“Exactly. I’ve been left behind on more crime scenes than I care to count. He becomes focussed to the exclusion of everything that isn’t case-related. Food. Sleep. People.” John pushes his plate forward. “He’s a good friend, though. On the balance, he really is. Just…not like anyone else.”

“He never was. That’s why I found him so hard to forget.”

“You could contact him,” John suggests. “It might be good for him to see an old friend again.”

“I’ve considered it. I don’t know that I will.”

“Because you find it difficult to forgive him?”

Victor looks at John, but really, he doesn’t. “Because he might not be very pleased to see me.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a gratuitous homage to the Empty House, because WhenISayFriend made me do it. This chapter coincides with the second anniversary of our correspondence and internet-based hijinks.

It’s almost midnight when Sherlock returns to Baker Street. John will be asleep, he thinks, so he makes an unusual effort to be quiet, deftly avoiding the creaking step and easing the door open with the sort of care he typically reserves for smaller, more delicate things. He is halfway to his bedroom when a weary voice halts him in his tracks. “That had better be you, Sherlock. I’m not equipped to deal with a burglar at this hour. I’ll shoot first.”

 _Stupid._ Sherlock should have known the sofa was occupied. Now he can hear the creak of leather and the whisper of cloth (John sitting up—he’d been lying down before, then). “Not a burglar.”

“Good. I’m switching on the light.”

There’s a click, and then they’re squinting at each other in the sudden warmth of the lamplight. It’s unspeakably awkward until John’s mouth twitches at the sight of Sherlock’s expression. “Oh god. I feel like your dad.”

“We never called him that.”

“No. Of course not. And you never snuck out to the disco as a teenager.” John is wrapped in a ratty blue wool blanket, one that Sherlock will now forever associate with nausea and delirium and a splitting headache that lasted for days. _So that’s a good start to things._

“Your sister did.” Sherlock does not remark upon the obvious: that John had clearly made a habit of waiting up for Harry, as well. 

“True. But she always told me she was going.”

“I told you when I planned to return,” Sherlock replies. His tone is more petulant than he intends.

John frowns. “And that’s nearly all you did tell me. Sit.” He nods towards the other end of the sofa, apparently in invitation. Or maybe it’s an order. It has that sound.

Sherlock considers this, but his feet move of their own accord as he does it. He sinks down into the leather, and it’s the cushions that make the sighing sound. If he’s honest, he’s nearly as tired as John looks. “I told you where I was.”

“After the fact.” John studies him for a moment, and then adds, “Your face is scratched.”

“Yes.” Sherlock resists the urge to touch his left cheek.

Irene is strong for her size, and agile, but she lacks Sherlock’s experience with the dark undersides of cities. She had been following him over one of the gates when she lost her grip. At some point in her descent, she flailed and connected with his face. Her fingernails may be varnished in a soft pink these days, but they’re still sharp. 

Later, when they’d returned to brighter light, she looked horrified by what she’d done. _Whatever you might think of me_ , she began, and he stopped her. _It isn’t as if you’d done it deliberately._ It was a simple statement of fact, but for some reason, she took that as an invitation to kiss him. _Worth a try_ , she said when he pushed her away, and also, _Such a waste._  

That’s something for the deletion queue. Bluebells and lip gloss. It very nearly reminds Sherlock of something else, something he had not, perhaps, successfully obliterated. _Chewing gum?_

He hasn’t been talking, and John is staring at him now. Sherlock stares back. _Moderate drinking, offset by nervous tea consumption. Shower at approximately ten o’clock. Went to bed. Came back down. Didn’t sleep._

“Bit of a fight?” 

“No.”

“Okay. Want to tell me what you _were_ doing?”

Sherlock tilts his head against the back of the sofa, and then sits up again because his hair feels gritty. “I have the code to a storage room,” he announces. “In Wandsworth.”

“But you said you went to France.”

“Yes. The owner needed persuading.”

“That’s not really an explanation, Sherlock.”

“Tax dodge. His son is running the facility now. He doesn’t know about their side business in smuggling.”

“And you do.” John’s patient/angry face is shifting towards curiosity. “Whose storage space?”

“Sebastian Moran’s,” Sherlock says. “So on the whole, I’d say it was worth it.”

“Getting your face cut up?”

“No. That was unrelated. An accident.”

“Right. I assume you applied an antiseptic.”

“Yes.” He had, in a way. Hand sanitiser, and the sting was deeply gratifying at the time, although John wouldn’t consider it adequate treatment.

“Well. You ought to have a shower now. And put something on the wound afterwards, lest you become infected.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened yesterday?” 

“In the morning. I’m going to bed now.” John pushes the blanket off and gets to his feet, which are bare and knobby beneath his faded tartan pyjamas. 

“In the morning, we’ll be headed off to Wandsworth.”

“So we’ll talk then. I’m exhausted, Sherlock. Good night.” 

Sherlock watches him go, and then stretches out on the sofa. The leather is still warm from John’s body, and the armrest smells like his shampoo. It’s vastly superior to his Eurostar seat.

Sherlock studies the ceiling for a full ten minutes, and then he shrugs out of his coat and makes his way to the bathroom. His scalp itches, and the suspicion that he’s just missed an important detail only adds to his discomfort.

* * *

John’s first thought upon seeing Sherlock’s face had been  _Oh god. You did it again. You went out and did something stupid and dangerous without me._

Then he started talking, mostly in monosyllables, and John no longer knew what to think. _An accident,_ he said, but John has attended enough crime scenes to recognise the gouges left by human fingernails when he sees them. It was clear that any explanation would require dragging it out of him, and John couldn’t be bothered.

Now he falls into the soft comfort of his bed, sinks his face into the pillow, and when he hears the rattle of water in the pipes below, he can’t be certain that he isn’t dreaming. 

A rattle of pipes, as water runs into the shower. 

_A rattle of pipes in another old house, as water is run into a kettle._

_John is seated at a kitchen table, and he’s looking at another man’s back, hunched over the tap, and all he can think of is the bag by his feet and the SIG barely concealed by a copy of the Mail and a half-eaten sandwich._

_A rattle of pipes, and he wonders whether he shouldn’t just reach down for the gun, because it would be so easy._

_It would be, but then Sebastian Moran speaks:_ I’ve been a bit worried about you.

Which one of us?

Afghanistan, _he says. It isn’t a direct answer. His face is a soldier’s face, lean and brown and worn, but his eyes are green and gold. Not quite human, those eyes._ I wasn’t there. Or maybe I was. You’ll never know. 

Does it matter?

Nothing matters to me now. You know why.

I had to. You were going to—I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t let you.

 _John watches as his eyes turn from green and gold to icy grey. The fingers wrapped around the tea cup grow long and pale. Moran’s voice changes with them._ No? If I say I did it for you, does that make it any better? 

No, _John says, and reaches down, down, down beneath the paper and the sodden mass of his sandwich._ **No,** _he says again, and the steel is cold and heavy in his hand._ I never asked for this.

_He stands, he fires, he spins, and he falls._

**John,** _Sherlock says, urgently, crouched over him where he lies bleeding his life away over rocks and cracked red earth._ John, keep your eyes on me, _and he’s cutting, cutting, cutting with a dull knife. As he cuts, he speaks, word tumbling after word in an endless flow._ You know it’s for the best. I can’t—You know I—

 _John reaches up and wrests the knife from his hand, slick with blood, or maybe it’s only rain._ Yes, I know. But you don’t have to. You could just stop. 

Just stop _._

_There’s music, then, and it’s broken pieces of a song, repeated and halted, halted and repeated over again in a singing, sobbing voice that isn’t human. But there is no violin, because Sherlock is lying on the sofa, looking like someone John has never seen before. Someone dead._

_He touches Sherlock’s face, raggedly sectioned into patchwork by dark liquid tracks running away into his matted hair. He could be carved in marble and onyx: cold bone and silent blood._

_He could be dead._

_John has said certain words before, to many men, in many terrible places, as their warm blood pumped out beneath his pinching, pressing fingers. He says them to Sherlock now:_

I am here. 

You are safe. 

You are home. 

You’re not dead.

_This time, they work. Sherlock’s eyes are open, but they’re glassy and unfocussed. He doesn’t make a sound beyond harsh, gasping breaths that come too fast, too shallow. He reaches for nothing. He shivers, teeth cracking together like castanets._

_John presses him down, down, down, into the sofa with steady hands. Into the leather, into the dry wool of the old blue blanket, into safety. When his breathing evens out, when he stops shivering, John stands up and steps away._

_He sleeps._

John sleeps, but he snaps awake at the sound of ceramic sliding against wood, very close to his face. He’s half out of bed before his eyes manage to transmit the image of Sherlock—equally startled and backing away from John’s bedside table—to his brain. “Fuck!”

Sherlock’s hands hover and twist about some invisible object in the air. “I—you—“

John slumps back against the headboard with a groan, and tries to moderate his thundering pulse. “I really shouldn’t have to tell you not to creep up on a person like this.”

Sherlock is fully dressed, of course, laundered and pressed and impossibly awake to a degree that cannot owe entirely to panic. “Coffee,” he manages to say. “I told you. We’re going to Wandsworth.”

John rubs at his eyes. They feel sandy. “Now?”

“It’s ten o’clock.” Sherlock shifts from foot to foot in a strange, improvised dance; jerky, but not entirely without grace. “The coffee is—I went to Paris. I was unclear. And then you were—I thought perhaps—“ and here he makes a wordless sound of frustration. “I’m sorry, John.”

John hacks his way through this verbal jungle. “Thank you. I think.”  

“Good. I’ll leave you to it, then. Try not to be too long.” 

By the time John has finished his coffee (surprisingly excellent, although he suspects it began life in crystalline form) and pulled on his clothes, he is clear-headed enough to deal with Sherlock.

John is walking into the kitchen when he hears a tinny rendition of _God Save the Queen,_ cut off in mid-phrase by Sherlock swiping at his mobile with a savage finger and snapping “Oh, it’s _you.”_

He’s precariously balanced at the edge of the kitchen table, one leather-soled foot turned upwards over the opposing thigh. The hem of his jacket is dangerously close to brushing up against a plateful of something gelatinous. John had allowed it to flourish into resentful, multi-coloured glory while Sherlock had been away.

John takes the telephone call as an opportunity to prepare some toast. He follows up his coffee with cold water from the tap.

He’s leaning against the refrigerator when Sherlock says, “It wasn’t a distraction. My work was finished, and there wasn’t another train. It was a diversion, albeit an unexpectedly informative one. I should have known you'd leverage the situation.”

John retrieves his perfectly toasted bread and searches for the butter. He locates it, at last, concealed on the far side of Sherlock’s hip. He pokes him in one long, black-trousered leg, and mouthes _“Butter.”_

“What?” Sherlock blinks, but then he hands John the dish. The telephone conversation continues, and it seems to be escalating in hostility. “Yes. I’ve gathered that, _Mycroft.”_   He makes the name sound like a dirty word. “Fine. You call it expedient. I call it childish.” 

John reaches over to slide the mysterious plate behind Sherlock towards a place of greater safety. 

“You know _exactly_ what I mean. Spare me your philosophising.” Sherlock glances down at John, who is now placidly buttering his toast in careful strokes, and grits out “Yes, he is. No, he doesn’t. Nor does he need to.”

“Need to what?” John asks. 

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand at him, and returns his attention to the muted, endless voice pouring out of his phone. “I have. Wandsworth. If I’m to do your legwork for you, consider sending us a car. A large one. I’ve no idea how many things he had in there, but it won’t do to leave them any longer.”

John bites into the first piece of toast, and then gets up again in pursuit of jam. He’ll have time enough, by the sound of things. He might as well get some additional calories into his stomach before the madness begins. 

 _Before it continues,_ he corrects himself. 

* * *

Mycroft sends a massive black Range Rover, and with it, unnecessary complications in the form of his favourite henchman, Jeff. “You’re doing well for yourself,” Sherlock observes. “Keep it up, and my brother will be entrusting you with his cat when he goes away on holiday.”

Jeff doesn’t appear to be insulted by this. “I don’t think he ever does go on holiday.”

John says, “Mycroft doesn’t have a cat.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. “How would you know?”

“Oh, come off it. He _doesn’t._ A cat would shed all over his suits.”

“True. One of the hairless sort, then. One of the ones that looks like a sagging Nosferatu. Remind me to send it in time for his birthday.”

“Or Irene Adler’s tiger,” John suggests, sliding into the car. “I’m not attached.”

Jeff and John exchange meaningless small talk and Sherlock resolutely blots out the content of their conversation. John is _supposed_ to be telling him all about his encounter with Marie Travers in the Italian Garden. Sherlock had gone to great pains to arrange it, for all he had neglected to inform John of his role until it became crucial. But no, apparently John would rather prattle away to one of Mycroft’s pet spooks about something stupid and topical, instead. 

Earlier, Sherlock had put down John’s reticence to discuss the mission as lingering resentment over the communications failure, but now he’s not so certain. John’s clearly withholding something. Or is Sherlock merely projecting his own—no. Not guilt. 

Sherlock doesn’t do guilt. 

Perhaps it would be better to come clean. He could make it casual:

_Oh, and while I was in Paris, I saw Irene Adler._

_Yes, John. I met with The Woman._ _We had dinner. She tried to--_

That would go over swimmingly.

The important thing is, she’s gone now, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. If anything, Sherlock feels relieved. She’d been fascinating, even entertaining at times, but the experiment (if it was one) had very definitely run its course. He admires her, as much as he might any person with such candid self-interest and determination, such manipulative ability. She’s intelligent, although not nearly as insightful as she’d like to believe.

She had tried to kiss him, after all.

And that was informative, if somewhat distasteful. His final remaining point of curiosity had been put to rest, definitively, then. Categorising his former (possibly obsessive; he can admit that now) interest in her became so simple after that. She had kissed him (or tried), and suddenly, he knew it had always been the _game_ he’d found so compelling. The danger. The novelty. The uncertainty. It wasn’t, as he’d secretly feared for some time, anything remotely resembling base human desire. Now that the game has ended, that curious chemistry is gone. And he can see that it never did have anything to do with...well. Bodies. 

Ergo, Sherlock has nothing to hide, and if John presses him about his time in Paris, he can explain his actions with perfect clarity. He’d rather not, but he can.

Still. 

Sherlock glances back at John. “Marie Travers,” he suggests. 

John tilts his head, quizzically, and Sherlock realises he’d been preparing to exit the car. They’ve stopped moving.

“Never mind. Tell me later.” 

* * *

John isn’t sure what Sherlock had been hoping to find in the storage locker, but the neat stacks of white moving cartons appear to be disappointing him.

Sebastian Moran hadn’t kept many personal possessions in his Baker Street flat, so it stood to reason that they’d find them somewhere else. When the three men begin a cursory inspection of the boxes, it becomes clear that most of them contain books. 

Only books.

“ _The Origin of Tree Worship?_ ” Sherlock drawls, derisively. “A complete set of Kipling?”

“You should see this one. First English-language edition of Oscar Wilde’s Salome.” Jeff is carefully flipping through a hard-bound blue book with gold lettering on the cover. “Illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley. Nice.”

John, who had landed a box of thoroughly modern nature photography books, cranes to look over Jeff’s shoulder. “Not sure I’d call that nice,” he protests, because a sinister-looking woman is pictured bending over a severed head with snaky hair. Then, as Jeff turns additional pages, he amends this. “Actually, no. Those _are_ nice.”

Sherlock comes over to see what they’re doing, and sneers. “Illustrated breasts, John? Really?” 

“Considering the last pair I had a good look at were covered in moss, I’m not complaining,” John says, thinking of the fountain nymph in the Italian Gardens. He really ought to relent and tell Sherlock about Marie Travers. Then he can get back to worrying about his other potential mistake. 

Jeff closes the book, very gently, and sets it aside. “And worth thousands of pounds. The book, that is.” He winks at John.

Sherlock says, “True. But I’m surprised _you_ knew that.”

“You’d be surprised what I know.” Jeff’s smile is easy, but his voice holds the suggestion of an edge. 

“What _are_ we looking for?” John asks. He’d hate to have to remind Sherlock that Jeff had not only carried him up the stairs, but also seen him drugged out of his mind. 

Sherlock frowns. “I’ve no idea. Milverton’s fingers in a jar?”

Jeff thinks this is funny. “No one who keeps a kitchen that clean would ever take body parts for souvenirs.”

John feigns sympathy. “That’s right. You _have_ spent time in our flat.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at both of them, and stalks away towards the opposite end of the storage locker. It isn’t a very big one, so the dramatic effect is spoiled, despite his flouncing coat tails. The other two men return to their boxes, rummaging in companionable silence for several minutes. 

John moves on to a box of cheap paperbacks. He dismisses them at first, but then he looks inside the cover of a dog-eared William Blake. “Sherlock.”

The inscription is written in faded black ink. The handwriting is neat, the letters square and compact.

_Sebastian,_

_I know you hate writing in books, but this one’s already got pencil in. I can’t make it much worse, can I?_

_I read it. Still godawful, but it does have one redeeming feature._

_I won’t lie. This little jaunt hasn’t been much fun, but we’ll be out of it soon, if I’m to believe what we’re being told._

_Travers said you should be on your feet again. She said some other things, but I’m not putting them in writing. I think she misses you._

_Not as much as me._

_Every day you’re gone is another day I have to hear the American on my radio instead of you. I’m tempted to tear my fucking helmet off. Maybe just his helmet, actually. Course, I’m not sure what happens to a cashiered BP. Don’t want to find out, now, do I?_

_I’ll give him another week. By then, he might even learn how to shoot._

_Get better. Get back here._

_Yours with forks,_

_Joe_

 

Sherlock’s shadow falls over the page, and John looks up at him. “Joe Richardson.”

He hums in agreement. “And Marie Travers mentioned. I see he’s careful not to mention where they were.”

“Well, he would be. I don’t know about the Pioneers, but military post gets read.”

“Between soldiers? I’m assuming he was in hospital at the time.”

“Yeah. He had a scar on his face. This sounds more serious, though.”

“Not just his face,” Jeff puts in.

Sherlock skewers him with a glance. “Were you at the autopsy? Now you’re a doctor?”

“Did I say that? You want to know, ask your brother for a look at the photographs. They’re very pretty. The _doctor,”_ he adds, with a gesture towards John, “made a textbook shot. Through a window. The lads were very impressed.”

“They should be,” Sherlock says, cooly, and for some reason, he sets his hand on John’s shoulder. Just a brief touch, and it’s gone. “But enough of that. Come see what I’ve found.”

They follow him back to his corner. It seems Sherlock had discovered a very different set of boxes tucked behind the others. To be more precise, they’re aluminium gun cases. Some of the contents are carefully laid out on the concrete beside them.

Jeff whistles. “Thought we had the whole collection. Apparently not.”

John has seen plenty of guns in his time, but never ones like these. Two of them are complicated, expensive-looking rifles. Then there are the handguns; every one of them gleaming and cradled in foam. They make John feels a twinge of regret for his own neglected SIG. 

Jeff relieves Sherlock of the final case before he can open it. “And these would be the reason why I’m here. Let’s get through the rest of the boxes quickly. I’ll be taking any firearms away with me.”

Once Jeff is satisfied that the remaining cartons contain nothing more than books, papers, envelopes, and (much to Sherlock’s delight), two flash drives, they load everything into the Rover and take it back to Baker Street.

* * *

Jeff has departed with the guns, and Sherlock is methodically stacking books on the living room rug when John says, “What was that all about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Jeff. He’s a good person. Why were you being such a wanker?”

“I hardly think anyone employed by my brother could be described as _good,”_ Sherlock replies, balancing a _Jane’s Guns_ on its spine to watch the pages fall open. 

“No? It was Jeff who helped me haul your sorry arse up a flight of stairs, or had you forgotten?” John is standing over him now, hands planted firmly on his hips. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. “I thought we’d agreed not to mention—“

“No. I don’t think we did. Just because something or someone makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t mean you’ve earned the right to drive them away. Nor will I stop talking because you’ve closed your eyes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“If anyone’s being ridiculous, it’s you. You owe him, Sherlock. And so do I. You have no idea what that night was like.”

“No,” Sherlock says. “Clearly, I don’t. Nor do I see why he has to keep turning up—“

“And reminding you that you made a mistake? Is that it?”

 _No,_ Sherlock thinks. Not precisely. It’s the camaraderie that does it. The way Jeff talks to John as if he’s earned the right. “No,” he repeats aloud. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” John passes a weary hand over his eyes. “Just don’t,” he says. “I’m going to have lunch. You… you can do whatever you like. And you will, because that’s what you do.”

Sherlock waits for John to retreat into the kitchen, and resumes his efforts for several more minutes. Then he gathers up a pile of envelopes and papers. When relative silence indicates that John has begun eating, he carries them into the kitchen.

John looks up from his sandwich. He hasn’t made another, which serves as an indicator that he is still annoyed. “I thought we could start with these,” Sherlock ventures.

He stares at him for a moment, chewing bread. Whatever he sees makes him swallow and say, “Go on, then.”

Sherlock virtuously divides the documents into two groups of equal size and pushes one of them across the table. Unfortunately, it seems that he has drawn the short straw. He’s got brochures and letters from a nature conservancy, They confirm Moran’s bizarre interest in tigers, if nothing else. Boring.

John eventually pushes his half-finished sandwich aside, and opens the large envelope resting on the top of his own pile. “I’ve got a photograph.”

Given the correct references, Sherlock could narrow down the location based on the morphology of the rocks and soil. A group of thirty-three people (men, primarily, although it’s hard to be completely sure with their shapes blurred by helmets and body armour) are posed together in a clump. One of the men in the back row has been circled in blue biro. Sherlock takes the photograph from John’s hand, and turns it over. The same blue biro continues on the reverse in tidy, uniform letters:

_1st BP -1_

_East Nowhere, BFE_

_12 February, 19never_

_My bad side_

It is unsigned, but the small, smiling figure encircled in ink is clearly Joe Richardson. Sherlock looks over the rest of the group, and picks out the other familiar faces by memory. David Okoro is two men down from Richardson, and in the bottom row, Marie Travers is turning to say something to a soldier that appears to be Keith Jones. 

“I wonder who held the camera,” Sherlock says, but John is reaching down into the envelope once again.

He draws out a metal ball chain, terminating in two flat, steel discs, one suspended on a shorter chain looped through the longer one. They jingle in his hands.

Sherlock knows what they are. He has examined John’s own dog tags, although he shouldn’t, perhaps, mention that fact. John keeps them locked away in the drawer of his bedside table, along with all the other things he likes to consider private.

John peers down at the letters stamped into the metal. “Oh. Maybe he didn’t have any family.”

“Moran?”

“No. Joe Richardson.” John holds the tags up for Sherlock to see:

_O POS_

########

_RICHARDSON_

_JA_

_CE_

“Blood group, identification number, name, and…what’s the last one?”

“Religion. Not that it means much. Church of England is the default. If you don’t tick any boxes on the form, they put CE. If you do, but someone doesn’t like your answer, they put CE.”  John tips the envelope over the table, and another chain tumbles out onto the wood. These tags are bound together with black electrical tape. 

Sherlock peels the tape away. “These are Moran’s. What else was in there?”

“Just some papers.” John scans through a sheaf of documents in varying sizes, most of them handwritten, as Sherlock spins the second pair of metal discs over, under, and through his fingers. The tags are covered in tacky residue from the tape, which somewhat impedes his dexterity. Still, it’s hypnotic, watching the letters and numbers flash in and out of view:

_A POS_

_#########_

_MORAN_

_S_

_*_

There might have been a _CE_ below the _S,_ but someone had neatly excised it with a metal punch. 

_A POS_

_#########_

_MORAN_

_S_

_*_

 

_A POS_

_#########_

_MORAN_

_S_

_*_

 

_A POS—_

“Jesus Christ,” John exclaims, possibly inappropriately for a man whose own identity discs still bear an unsolicited CE. He sets the letters on the table as if he fears they’ll combust.

Sherlock’s fingers snatch the tags out of the air in mid-flip. “What?”

“They’re all letters from Richardson.”

Sherlock can’t imagine why this should be so very surprising. “We knew they were friends.”

“Friends? I don’t know about you, but _I_ don’t have any friends who write me letters like these.”

_I do have friends…It’s nothing like this…_

Sherlock blinks. The words are intrusive fragments of sound, corrupted data, moths at an invisible window. 

_Friends is a word…_

Sherlock opens his eyes, and John is staring at him, clearly confused by his mental absence. 

“Sorry. The letters.”

“Yeah. They’re…rather personal. Think I might know another reason why Milverton lost his fingers, though.”

Sherlock is running his eyes over the creased pages at lightning speed. Occasionally, phrases leap out at him:

_…could have kissed you in front of Davies for that…mosquito meat…you know I have faith in the bomb doctor…should have let you sleep, but it was worth it…too cold for that…Friday afternoon…snakes in the trees…needles like a fucking pincushion…Turkish cigarettes…told Travers I was just tired, but she’s keeping me overnight. If I can’t make my escape, have a good…Okoro’s only taking the piss…never seen anything go up like that one…no live rounds, thank God…said he bet Jones he wouldn’t…don’t let it get to you…five toes preferred…down with her face blown off…bloody field of poppies…no one ever cares about the dog, I said…saner than I am…if I don’t see your pretty green eyes ever again…afraid I’d do something stupid…half to death…he said it wasn’t real…wrong side of the firebreak…should have believed you…no one would believe it if you did…last one, but there’s always another bottle…fucked if I take mine ever again…Rupert watched him do it…said it was poison…always better when you’re here…Friday again._

Sherlock says, “Did you mean Moran and Richardson’s unsanctioned sexual relationship? Because I’m _much_ more interested in the psychotropic substance the Bangalore Pioneers were being dosed with every Friday.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

Hours have passed, and they’re still sitting at the kitchen table. Sherlock has his laptop with him now, and he’s scanning, scrolling, devouring information. John occasionally glances over and watches as his eyes flick over text, his index finger hovering and pressing against the downward arrow.

John has returned to Richardson’s letters. He feels like a voyeur. The content isn’t terribly salacious; anything he’d find embarrassing is largely veiled in the peculiar language of an established, albeit secret, relationship. John is simply unsettled by the act of sifting through the collected artefacts of a dead man’s private life. 

 _It isn’t as if you’ve never done this sort of thing before,_ he reminds himself. _And I don’t know, maybe I’ll find something different._ He cannot help but feel that Sherlock has put two and two together to make five. _Does it have to be a drug?_ _All right, there_ was _Baskerville, but that was a_ weapon. _You wouldn’t want to do that to your own soldiers. Not deliberately. An accident? Something seemingly harmless that built up over time? Richardson, he experienced whatever it was. Moran did not. They weren’t always in the same place, or I wouldn’t have these letters to read. Where were the Pioneers?_ That’s still not clear. Mentions of mountains and desert, trees and grass. Cities, sometimes. A jungle. They were always moving.

“Classic compulsion,” Sherlock pronounces abruptly. He hasn’t spoken for a good half hour.

“What?”

“Confession through documentation. If Moran received an order in writing, it’s here. It all stops a good week before Moriarty decided to eat his gun, but there’s more than enough to hang either of them on.”

“We don’t hang people, Sherlock.”

“Not officially, no.” 

“What do you mean, _not officially?”_

“Oh please, John. If there’s one thing the past week has illustrated, it is that the British government is not above making people disappear when it’s convenient. A physical noose is not required.”

“Right.” John smoothes creases out of the letter he’d been reading. It’s a lengthy, humorously-worded complaint about mosquitoes. “Anything new?”

“Not much, no. Some theories confirmed. Assorted murders. The pips bombings. Although...that’s interesting. Bit of friction there over the old woman. Moran didn’t approve.” 

John remembers the fight he’d had with Sherlock over the same event. The parallel is unsettling. “No? Good for him.”

Sherlock looks up from the laptop. “Don’t waste empathy on a murderer, John. It’s a weakness.”

This, too, is an echo, if distorted. “Is it? At least he felt _something._ Maybe that stopped him doing worse things.”

“Would it help if I told you the nature of his objections? If anything, they’re expressed in aesthetic terms. He liked things to be clean, but I’d hardly call that morality. Consider this: had Moran not been arranging a convenient hunting accident for a peer the same day, you might have met him at the pool. That could have been him strapping you into a Semtex parka.”

John shudders. “Don’t.” 

“Why not?” Sherlock looks at him for several unblinkingly uncomfortable seconds. “You’ve been behaving oddly over those letters.”

“It’s just…Moran was a real person, wasn’t he? Like anyone else: bad and good mixed together. Someone cared for him, by the look of things. And now we’re going through his private correspondence and possessions. It feels like a trial for a dead man. It’s fucked up.”

“A real person. So now it’s that little bit harder to face having shot him, is that it? It shouldn’t be. Do I need to show you his orders? He was perfectly prepared to kill you if I didn’t jump. He sought you out when he learned I’d survived. I’ll grant you, that’s not documented here. It doesn’t need to be. It’s the usual pattern. He stalked his victims like a hunter. He learned their habits. Then he killed them.” He exhales, audibly. “And if that's not enough, I remember what he said.”

“What? When?”

“Before he—before you shot him. I remember now. _The doctor is next._ ”

“Oh.” John feels something he can’t identify. It’s a strange, muddled cocktail of disappointment and relief. It doesn’t make any sense at all. He slides his chair back. “I’m going to have more tea.”

“Good idea. Three sugars in mine.” Sherlock’s eyes have returned to the laptop.

“That’s disgusting.” John stands and collects their empty mugs. “Also, it isn’t a proper substitute for the two meals you avoided today.”

Sherlock makes a sound that isn’t agreement or disagreement. 

John runs water into the electric kettle and watches the bubbles roll as it heats. He’s pouring it over tea bags when Sherlock exclaims, “Ah! Milverton.”

“That’s in there?” John ferries both mugs and the sugar bowl back to the table. Sherlock can ruin his own teeth.

“Not an explanation, unfortunately. But there is this.” Sherlock affects a sing-song voice and reads out, “Fingers? I admire the poetry in it, if not the disobedience. You’ve been colouring outside the lines, Sebastian. Do try to remember that what is mine should not be touched without permission. I can have you killed, and there won’t be anything clean about it when I do.” 

Sherlock’s impression is spot-on, and it makes John’s skin crawl. “Ugh. Is it all like that?”

“Worse. Moriarty always did enjoy colourful threats. Making people into shoes, et cetera…” Sherlock reaches across the table and begins shovelling sugar into his tea, all without taking his eyes off the screen.

John watches without comment. More than three spoons. God. “I’ve been wondering. How mad was he? When I remember him, and god knows I’d rather not, he’s always this side of foaming at the mouth.”

“Define madness. Moriarty’s thinking was, on the whole, extremely ordered, if we are to judge by his results. He maintained a very efficient criminal empire. From a strictly legal standpoint, that precludes insanity.”

“You think he was putting it on, then? For effect?”

Sherlock takes a sip of tea. John’s waiting for him to flinch when the sugar hits, but he does not. “Stoats dance.”

“Stoats…dance?” John repeats. “You’ve lost me.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sets the cup down and resumes scrolling. “You’re fond of Youtube. Do a search for stoats dancing. There’s endless footage of them leaping and rolling in the grass all over the English countryside. It’s said to have a hypnotic effect on their prey. They dance, and then they kill the rabbits that stand by and watch them do it. Some attribute this behaviour to disease; a neurological condition caused by a parasite. The observable fact is this: stoats dance. Rabbits watch, and then they die. Moriarty was a stoat. Does it matter why he danced?”

“That’s insane. And also brilliant.”

Sherlock looks pleased. “Yes.” 

“What, then, was Moran?”

“A hired killer. That’s a uniquely human occupation.”

“I suppose it is.”

“It is. As is archiving communication. Not a lot of exchange, typically. Moran is brief, unless he’s feeling annoyed by Moriarty’s antics. Irritating pet names. Vulgar suggestions.”

John doesn’t particularly want to consider what Moriarty’s vulgar suggestions might entail. “But he followed his orders.”

“Years of them. Clearly he found the association mutually beneficial, despite occasional peaks in animosity. A need for structure? I don’t think he was an adventure-seeker, so much as a technician. He liked things to be predictable. And of course, he was paid.”

“Books,” John says.

“Books and guns to supplement the cash, yes. So that was not a bizarre fantasy manufactured by Milverton, after all.” Sherlock ejects the flash drive and pulls the second out of his pocket. “Well. Let’s hope this proves a bit more useful.”

* * *

Sherlock is ignoring the vegetable curry congealing beside him on its plate and examining a string of numbers. Some of them look like geographic coordinates. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John mutters, over the sound of the tap. He’s washing up. Soon, he’ll start making barbed remarks about Sherlock’s wasted meal. 

_They can’t all be coordinates. Dates? If they are, it’s an odd format. Also, letters. Not many. Initials? These were notes Moran made for himself. Pity he’s dead. For a man who liked to read, he didn’t have much to say._

“Mosquitoes.” John announces, in the sudden silence after shutting off the tap.

“What?”

“Mosquitoes. Malaria. Lariam. They were taking Lariam. Once a week, yeah?”

Sherlock looks up at this. “Go on.”

John strips the sopping dish cloth through his fingers. He must have dropped it in the sink. “I should have seen it before now. Of course they were. The timing’s right. No one would have said anything about it. Not then. Now it’s all beginning to come out.”

“Do get to the point,” Sherlock says. “You’ve arrived at something. What? I don’t need qualifiers.”

“Lariam. It’s an anti-malarial. Before that, we had quinine or methylene blue. Nothing without side effects. Lariam was supposed to be better than those. At the very least, it didn’t give you heart failure, diarrhoea, green urine, or Dune eyes.”

Sherlock has no idea what he’s going on about. _Dune eyes?_ _Not important._ “You say it was _supposed_ to be better. What does Lariam do, then?”

“Mostly, it prevents malaria. But in some cases, it seems to cause psychosis. And we weren’t supposed to talk about that, were we?”

Sherlock looks at him. “This was prescribed to soldiers?”

“Still is, as far as I know. I handed out my share of tablets in Afghanistan.” He frowns. “Malaria’s a nasty thing. So, when you weigh certain disease against possible side effects…you’re not inclined to dwell on potential problems, are you? I knew a medic from the States. He was convinced it was worse than they said. Called it a conspiracy. But it’s not the sort of thing you do a controlled test for, is it? There’s an entire generation of soldiers who flinch when they see a pile of rubbish by the side of the road, or even a child holding a parcel. People completely off their heads, and who’s to say what is the result of trauma, of seeing IEDs everywhere—because they _were—_ and what’s been caused by a drug everyone takes per standard procedure?”

“Spell it.”

“L-a-r-i-a-m. Or mefloquine.”

Sherlock opens a search window and scans the results. Shootings. Massacres. Scandal, emerging only recently. “Yes. That’s—well done, John.” 

John does not look as pleased by the praise as he should be. “Yeah. Took me long enough. It’s a bit like taxi cabs, isn’t it? Our first case. Something everyone knows about, and doesn’t think about at all.”

“But you did see it. I knew you’d come in useful, eventually.” 

“Thanks for that. Still. It doesn’t tell us much about what happened. Not really. So some of the Pioneers lost their heads. We still don’t know why they were disbanded. Why so many of them died.”

“We do have Marie Travers,” Sherlock reminds him.

“If she ever speaks to me again. I’m not sure I made a good impression.”

“No, you were the best man for the job. That’s why I arranged it.”

“You—of course you did.” John puts his hand over his face. “How did you find her? You never said.”

“Didn’t I? You saw her. It was quite obvious she hadn’t travelled far. A Londoner. In addition, she’d had a brief marriage years ago. Not a happy one, but she didn’t want to be saddled with Travers, so she kept his surname. Eventually, I found it. Still a common name, but I was able to narrow it down to one possible match.”

“And you’re only mentioning this now.”

“I didn’t think it important. The _important_ thing was arranging a meeting. Which I did.”

“And what is her name, now?”

“Morrison.”

John looks at him incredulously. “Morrison. Marie Morrison.”

“Yes, I’m aware. Another M.” 

John’s expression is a fascinating mixture of horror and amusement. But he laughs.

It’s contagious, that laugh. 

* * *

Charles Milverton looks considerably less polished now. Some of that can be put down to the harsh fluorescent lighting. Or perhaps it’s the drab prison clothing, cut for efficiency, rather than flattery. His face is pale and puffy around the edges. His hair is coarse and wiry without the aid of styling products.

Mycroft folds his hands over the scarred metal table. He says, “I’ve no intention of haggling over terms with you, Charles.”

“You’re here. It stands to reason I’ve got something you want.”

“If you have, be certain I will find it.”

Milverton frowns down at the gloveless, wealed remains of his fingers. “Sooner or later, I’m bound to stand trial. You can’t hold me here indefinitely. I know my rights.”

Mycroft sighs. Predictable. It’s only one step removed from _Do You Know Who I Am._ “Do you? I think you fail to comprehend your position.”

“You can’t sweep me under the rug. People will wonder, and believe me, I’ll have plenty to say about this. My name is known. I’m a respected writer.”

 _And there it is._ “Yes. By some definitions.” Mycroft smiles, thinly. “That’s an interesting point. I’ve acquired proof of your plagiarism. A bit clumsy, but then your French translation was never terribly good, was it? I cannot help but wonder: would it hurt you to have your work discredited? You don’t seem much bothered by the other harm you’ve done. Financial ruin. Emotional damage. Suicides. Perhaps, in your twisted little way, you’ve congratulated yourself on liberating the truth. But your writing…ah, yes. That strikes a nerve. You’re rather proud of that.”

“You’re threatening me.”

“No, no, no. Merely applying leverage. Because I do want you to talk, Charles. First, to me, and later, perhaps, if you’ve anything useful to say, a broader audience.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m presenting you an opportunity to make yourself of use. You would do well to accept it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Are you enjoying your stay here?” Mycroft raises a hand. “You needn’t answer that. No luxury. No communication. And you do so like to talk, don’t you?”

“Afraid I will, are you?”

“No. In my opinion, you’re better off. You see, a man with your… _unique_ skill set only lasts so long in a prison environment. The politics are rather different here. You’d try to gain a foothold, of course. Perhaps, for a while, you’d succeed. But you’re weak. Blackmailers are universally loathed. There’s a hierarchy, you see, and you come in at a very low tier. Slightly above a child murderer or a serial rapist.”

Milverton sneers at this. “Insults. Does that usually work?”

“It’s a simple statement of fact. You’ve always been concerned with position. Here, you have none.”

“Position.” He lets out his breath with a hiss. “What’s yours, Mycroft Holmes? What position do _you_ occupy, that lets you sit here and lord it over me?”

Mycroft smiles again, but this time, it has more teeth in it. “That’s not terribly important, is it? Although you’ll note I’m seeing you without a guard present. Now. Shall we continue?”

* * *

Sherlock moves to the sofa and spends hours staring at his screen and occasionally making notes. Whatever he might be thinking, he’s keeping it to himself. John goes up to bed, and when he comes down the next morning, the laptop is on the floor. Sherlock is still reclining on the sofa, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling, hands clasped together in prayer to the gods of logic.

He doesn’t even blink when John clears away the remains of two cups of mirky tea dregs and replaces them with a mug of fresh coffee. 

John stands staring down at him for some time before he stirs and says, “Yes?”

“Find anything?”

“Possibly.” Sherlock blinks. The skin under his eyes looks bruised. Between that and the slightly puffed scratches down his cheek, he looks like hell. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Have you thrown it at Mycroft?”

He groans. “I told him I had new material. No doubt he’ll see fit to grace us with a visit as soon as he can slot it into his schedule. Somewhere between world domination and sneering.”

“Ah.” John looks down at Sherlock, considering. “That isn’t looking very good.”

“What?”

“Your face. It looks inflamed.” He reaches down to touch the crusting skin. It is warmer than it should be. 

“Don’t.” Sherlock seizes John’s wrist with cold, strong fingers, wrenching his hand up and away. 

“Touchy.” John frowns down at the hand still clamped around his arm. “Bruising me isn’t going to help anything, is it?” 

Sherlock releases him. “Go on then. Do feel free to dispense your professional advice. I can see you’re positively bubbling over.”

John rubs at his arm. “Look, if you want a nasty, completely pointless scar, that’s your prerogative. But if you don’t, start with a warm cloth. Press. Don’t scrub at it. Then apply ointment.”

“Thank you, _Doctor,”_ Sherlock says, in a peevish rasp. “Anything else?”

John shakes his head. “If it isn’t better in a few days, might be worth a blood test. You of all people ought to know what horrid things get trapped beneath fingernails.” 

“Of course I know.”

“That’s all she gave you, I hope? Not hiding any other wounds?” John keeps his tone brisk and professional, but Sherlock glares at him in response.

“What? I assume it wasn’t Fu Manchu. Looks like acrylic tips to me. They can do quite a bit of damage.”

“Please spare me the details of your sordid past.” 

It’s clear John has scored a hit. He presses on. “Oh, I wouldn’t call it sordid. Consenting adults, and all that. I’ll admit, I prefer ladies who keep them clipped. Less wear and tear.”

Sherlock’s lip curls. 

“Yes, I know. Not your thing,” John continues, trying not to smirk. “Drink your coffee and clean your wound.”

Sherlock glowers, but then he says, “She works in a job centre.” 

“What? The woman who tore strips off your face?” 

“Don’t be stupid, John. Marie Travers. Or rather, Marie Morrison. You should pay her a visit today.”

John sighs. “Trying to get rid of me? I seem to recall telling you she said she’d find us in her own time. Hounding her isn’t going to get us very far.”

“We’re not getting anywhere waiting for her, are we? Tell her we’ve found his things.”

“Why does it have to be me?”

“You’re less intimidating.” Sherlock swings his feet down onto the floor and rummages in his dressing gown pocket. 

John isn’t sure he appreciates the compliment, if it is one. “Oh, and stalking a woman at her place of employment isn’t a form of intimidation?”

“No,” Sherlock says. He’s already scribbling something on a scrap of paper. “Here’s the address. You’ll want to get in early, but you’ve just enough time for breakfast, if you hurry.”

* * *

The job centre is located in Hammersmith. _For a New Beginning,_ proclaims a placard stuck inside the window. _Full Time or Part Time. Temporary or Permanent._

John exhales slowly, and raises his chin. _Well. Time to face the artillery._ He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The office is decorated in soothing shades of blue and cream. A number of chairs are clustered around a low table in the waiting area. It holds a stack of leaflets, a steel carafe of coffee, and a modest stack of polystyrene cups. John winces inwardly at the sight of these. 

The atmosphere is altogether too reminiscent of a time he’d rather forget: sitting around with other, broken men, pretending to find hope in a meagre pension cheque and an incomprehensible future in a city that had moved on without him. 

John is lucky. That phase of his life hadn’t lasted very long; not really. One chance meeting with Mike Stamford, a trip to St. Bart’s, and a brief encounter with a madman changed all of that. He wonders what happened to all the other poor sods. Some of them, in all likelihood, found themselves here, drinking bad coffee and filling in forms. If hell has a modern, bureaucratic wing, it might look a bit like this. 

The receptionist is a middle-aged woman with elaborately plaited hair in an unlikely shade of burgundy. John approaches the desk, and she glances up from her keyboard. He suppresses a smile, because her fingernails are long, curved, and varnished to match her hair. 

Maybe he didn’t suppress the smile completely, because she offers him a very charming one in return. “What can I help you with, love?”

“I was hoping to have a word with Marie Tr—Morrison.”

“Ah, you’re one of hers. What time were you down for?”

“I didn’t have an appointment. I was hoping it didn’t matter.” 

She shakes her head. “I’ll have a look, but we’re flat out, you know.”

John glances, pointedly, at the unpopulated room behind him. “I’m sure you are.”

She frowns, and rapidly enters something into her keyboard. Her speed is impressive, considering the length of her nails. “Mmm. She’s got someone now, but it shouldn’t be more than ten minutes’ wait.”

“That’s fine.”

“Name?”

John looks blankly at her. Then it dawns on him. “John. Watson, only I’m not in the system.  Not any longer.”

She tilts her head. 

“It was… a different branch. Years ago. It’s not important. I just wanted to speak with her. Briefly. It’s, ah, a personal thing.”

A small furrow appears between her brows. 

John thinks, _What would Sherlock do? Sham something. Tell lies. Well, he’s not here. I am._  He says, “I returned from Afghanistan a few years ago. Invalided out. But I’m working now.”

This appears to have been the right tack. The furrow vanishes. “A success. That’s good to hear. She’ll be pleased. Ten minutes?”

John nods. “Thank you.” 

He retreats back to the waiting area, and settles into one of the chairs. It looks comfortable, but it’s not. He spends the next ten minutes scrolling through old messages on his phone, checking the weather (cloudy), and indulging in a few jittery rounds of Angry Birds. 

Five minutes into his wait, the door bangs open and a spotty youth in a baggy football jacket approaches the desk. John is amused to see that he has what appears to be an iguana stowed inside the jacket, its scaly head poking out at the collar, and its tail protruding beneath the waistband.

“Charlie, I’ve told you,” the receptionist says reprovingly. “You can’t have that thing in here.”

“Got no choice, Miss. He needs keeping warm.”

A muted argument begins over the lizard. As it rages on, more job seekers arrive, in a steady stream. Soon all the seats are filled by a colourful assortment of humanity. Some look resigned. Some look hopeful. Some look resentful, and one woman looks positively angry. John pockets his phone and observes with interest as she launches into a tirade against life, previous employers, and the government. The woman behind the desk responds in patient, measured tones, and at length, the complainer flops into the chair beside John. “Bloody UKIP,” she mutters through strands of greying hair. “Fucking Tube fees.”

John nods, and pours himself a coffee. Then, after brief consideration, he pours her one as well. She doesn’t thank him for it, but it shuts her up.

In the end, it’s much nearer fifteen minutes than ten before the receptionist calls for him. “You can go through now. It’s the third on the left.”

“Thanks.” John makes his way past two grey cubicles and steels himself to enter the third. 

Marie is rummaging through a desk drawer when he approaches. Were it not for the name plate, John would be inclined to think that Sherlock had made a mistake. This woman is wearing a crisp white blouse and trim charcoal skirt. Her dark hair is wound into a prim bun at the back of her head. She looks up, and freezes, one hand still tucked inside the drawer.  

“Sorry,” John says, awkwardly, automatically. She might be wearing a skirt this time, but she is definitely Marie Travers. Marie _Morrison._

She withdraws her hand—empty, which is interesting—and slams the drawer shut. Her eyes narrow. “You.”

“Yes.”

“I thought we’d established what was going to happen. This wasn’t it.”

“I know.”

“Sit.”

John takes the seat opposite her. He plants his feet squarely on the carpet and sets a hand on each thigh. Then it occurs to him that this might look too confrontational, so he folds them together neatly instead.

Marie crosses her own arms over her chest. “I assume you’re not looking for work.”

“Ah. No. Sorry. I know this isn’t—Sherlock told me where to find you.” John clears his throat. “We found some things. I thought you’d want to know.”

She raises an eyebrow at this. “Things.”

“Yes. In a storage locker. It belonged to Sebastian Moran.”

“Did it.” Her lips compress themselves in a narrow line. 

They’re nicely shaped lips, despite this. It seems almost a shame. “Just…books and documents, really. Letters. Some…files.”

“I see. So you’ve done some prying, and now you’re hoping I’ll be obliging and fill in the blanks.”

“Honestly? Yes. I am.”

“That isn’t going to happen here. I take my work very seriously.”

“But if you’d like to see them. Some other time. You could.”

“I would. Now, though, I’ll have to ask you to leave. I’ve people to see. Living ones.”

"Why this?” John asks, suddenly. “Why a job centre? I should think, with your background, you’d be—“

“Practising medicine?” Marie laughs. It sounds bitter. “No longer licensed. But even if I was, don’t you think this matters? Here, I can accomplish something real. Not as often as I’d like, but it’s something.” She shrugs. “Why aren’t you?”

That’s fair. John often asks himself the same question. “I did. Things became complicated.”

“Things. Things like Sherlock Holmes?”

“You could say that. It’s a full time job with terrible hours. It had to be patients or crime scenes. They’re not very compatible.”

“That, and you found it boring, didn’t you? The patients. Not the crime scenes.”

“I’m afraid I did. Colds and ‘flu. People who can’t be bothered to look after themselves and expect you to do it for them. NHS paperwork. It’s not a very nice thing to say, but yes, I did find it boring. It isn’t the same. It can’t be.”

Marie smiles, fleetingly. “No.” 

“What about you? Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes I do. Sometimes I’m glad it’s over. For a number of reasons.” She uncrosses her arms and reaches for a pad of sticky notes. They have the job centre logo on them. She peels one off and hands it to John, along with a pen. “Your number. So I can contact you.”

He accepts them. _We make things happen,_ the text beneath the logo insists. He shakes his head, and carefully inscribes his telephone number beneath it. The pen is running out of ink, so it takes longer than it should. “So I’ll be seeing you again? You could give me yours. Just in case.”

“I’m not going to lose this,” Marie says. “And you will.” She stands to see him out, and John cannot help but notice that she appears to have rather nice legs. Not showy. Just nice.

And that’s really not the sort of thing he ought to be dwelling on, is it?

No. It isn’t. 

John leaves the job centre, and decides he isn’t ready to return to the flat. He takes a detour.

He’s in Tesco, looking at a baffling assortment of toothbrushes, when his mobile buzzes against his leg. _Probably Sherlock. Now I’ll have to tell him that I’ve accomplished fuck-all. Again._

When he retrieves the phone, the number is unfamiliar. It certainly isn’t Sherlock. 

_Wednesday. 19:00. I’ll send the address later._

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock stares at unchanging numbers and letters, waiting for the white space around them to shift and fill with interpolated data, but it does not. Numbers and letters. Letters and numbers. Meaningless symbols, stock-still and obstinate. Mycroft might make something of them, but  Mycroft is hoarding information.

Fragments of unrelated, mundane, completely uninteresting thought slip through Sherlock’s mind, half-formed and discarded before they can be articulated. Before and after and through them weaves the insidious whisper: _none of this really matters._

The room around him, so precisely curated in its inspiration-invoking disorder, might as well be flat and muted. Nothing is wrong enough to change, or distracting enough to catch Sherlock’s interest. Greyness threads itself through him like an anaesthetic, but he does not sleep.

Somehow it becomes morning, and Sherlock nearly takes John’s hand off when the man touches his face. The contact with his healing skin is jarring, but not because it’s painful (it isn’t). No, it is because the sensation is a spike in the flat line, a flash of colour in a featureless, pointless plain.

John isn’t muted, and while nothing else seems to matter just now, Sherlock remembers that he, at least, is important. John isn’t gone, and that’s something that does matter. John should never be gone, and so Sherlock sends him away. He’s not quite detached enough to miss the irony of this.

Sherlock rises and washes and shaves and dresses without consciously engaging in the details. It’s a matter of muscular memory, something best left to the part of him that persists on a merely involuntary level. He can breathe, and he can also button a shirt. It doesn’t matter; doesn’t matter when Mycroft arrives (as expected) and they’re sitting at the table; doesn’t matter when his brother glances over the letters; doesn’t matter when he examines the contents of the drives with a faint glimmer of recognition but no comment of any kind.

Mycroft ejects the second drive and tucks it into his breast pocket. He smoothes grey wool over it once, twice, and then he says, “Yes. Good.” 

He says this, and then he leans forward to study Sherlock with cold, assessing eyes until he feels pinned enough to protest. Words appear and string themselves together. They sound disjointed upon release. “You’re not going to tell me what this means.”

“You don’t need to know.” 

That’s a goad. Artfully applied, because Mycroft is good at that. “You’re wasting my time,” Sherlock says.

“I’m not. The information is valuable. I am grateful. Unfortunately, my gratitude does not extend to explaining its significance. There’s entirely too much at stake.” Mycroft is wearing his Very Serious face, the one he mistakenly believes cannot be considered patronising.

“So I’m to labour away without deriving anything of interest. A blindfolded courier.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.” Mycroft leans back in his seat, hands loosely folded over one immaculately creased knee. “The information is mine to interpret. That wasn’t part of your assignment.”

It’s unfortunate that, if Sherlock is to feel anything, it should be renewed frustration. “What, precisely, is my assignment? Wasting my time over dead criminals? Speculating over cold, buried scandals you’re not bold enough to unearth with your own spade?”

Mycroft doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he changes the subject. “Marie Travers. You’ve located her.”

“Of course I have.  A child could have done it.”

“A child could have managed a bit more by now, don’t you think?”

“John’s on it. He went to see her today.”

“At the job centre in Hammersmith,” Mycroft agrees. 

“Yes, at the job centre. Why bother asking, if you know so much about it? I’m astounded you haven’t sent someone round yourself.” 

“I’ve told you. I can’t risk it.” Mycroft tilts his head, and the angles of his face become pointed and vulpine. “You sent him alone. Was that a good idea?”

It’s an astute question, and Sherlock resents it. “It wasn’t a bad one. Why? Getting impatient?”

“I need answers. She has them. What are you playing at, Sherlock?” 

“You’re the one insisting we tiptoe down the stairs like children in fluffy socks. It’s delicate. John’s the right man for the job.”

“And you’re content to sit here, are you? Why? You don’t appear to be otherwise occupied.” Mycroft scans the room, seemingly idle but far too perceptive.

“The human touch. She’ll want to talk to him,” Sherlock says. “I’d get it wrong.”

“The human touch. There’s an interesting choice of words. John, John, John. Is this about securing information, or is it about John?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, it is. This is very much about John. I’ll ask you again: what are you playing at?”

“I’m not playing at anything. It’s expedient. It’s perfect.” 

“Yes. It’s very clever. Send a veteran to chat up a veteran. How very humane.” 

“Sneer at that all you like. It’s effective.”

“Assuredly.” Mycroft sighs. “While we’re addressing efficiency, why not kill two birds with one stone? Why not make an attempt to mend your broken soldier?”

Sherlock ignores the stupidity of the idiom. _Birds. Stones._ “If you’re stupid enough to call him broken, I don’t expect you to understand the point of the exercise.”

“No? You’re conducting an experiment. That much, I do understand. I’d appreciate it if you refrain from letting your psychological dabbling take precedence over the work at hand. _My_ work.”

“It won’t.”

Mycroft nods. “Or your own, for that matter.”

“Mine? I believe we’ve established my role. I hand over the data, and you decide which bits are relevant to your machinations. I’ve handed over the data, John is working on the rest, and in the meantime—“

“In the meantime,” Mycroft interrupts him, “you’re indulging in a childish bout of ennui.”

“Who chose to hog the marbles, Mycroft?”

“I apologise for denying you complete involvement in my investigation. That’s not the real problem, though, is it? You, I suspect, are attempting to deny yourself something much more personal out of a misguided attempt at nobility.” Mycroft glances, as he had not, before, at the scabbed lines on Sherlock’s face. His expression doesn’t change. “You’re oversimplifying something that isn’t simple, applying flawed logic to a problem you’re not qualified to comprehend. The result may bear no resemblance to the future you’re so fatalistically resigning yourself to. In short, dear brother, stop wallowing in self-imposed, imaginary misery.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, reflexively, but is saved from having to come up with a retort by the uneven tread of feet on the stairs. He wonders why he’d missed the sound of the door below, but is overwhelmed with a silent, unreasonable surge of gratitude for the interruption.

The door swings open, and John bustles into the flat, a plastic Tesco bag clutched in one hand. “Sherlock?” He halts upon seeing Mycroft. “Oh. _You_ ’ _re_ here.”

“Yes, but he’s going now,” Sherlock says. 

Mycroft is leaning back into his chair as if he intends to live there. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Sherlock insists. “You are.”

“Ah. It seems that I am.” Mycroft unfolds himself into a standing position, brushes at his suit, and reaches for the ubiquitous umbrella. “You’re looking well, John. I trust your mission was a success.” He’s at the door when he adds, ”Sherlock. Find something to do.”

Sherlock watches the door close, and turns to John once it has. His face is slightly reddened with cold, forehead furrowed in faint perplexity. _Mission a success,_ Sherlock thinks.

“What did he want?” John slings the bag onto the table (one item: toothbrush) and removes his jacket.

“What does he usually want? Information. I gave him the drives, and assured him you were doing your best with Marie.”

John smiles, with a hint of exasperation. “I tried. Maybe it worked. At any rate, we’re to meet again on Wednesday night. No idea where. She’ll tell me later.”

“You’ve given her your telephone number. Good.”

“She asked.” John looks slightly confounded by the memory. “So, yeah. I suppose that was a success, of sorts. The whole thing was surreal, Sherlock. Walking into a job centre and… There was a bloke with an iguana in his jacket. An actual lizard. In a job centre.”

“Five foot nine. Cystic acne. Brown hair and glasses. Chelsea supporter.”

John nods. “Yes?”

“That would be Charlie,” Sherlock says, and takes some small pleasure in John’s expression of admiring surprise. He is less pleased when it shifts into resignation.

“So you’ve been there already. God, Sherlock. What’s the point of—”

“No, no,” Sherlock corrects him. “I haven’t. Conjecture, based on probability.”

“Oh. Right.” John looks mollified by this. “I mean, yeah. How many people can there be, roaming the streets of London with a pet like that?”

“Two that I’m aware of.” Sherlock offers John a smile—not his best work—and says, “Go on, then. Tell me what she said.” 

He manages to listen to John’s rambling account of his encounter with Marie Morrison in its entirety before he returns to the sofa once again. 

 _Mycroft can get stuffed,_ he thinks. It’s fortunate he hadn’t been allowed to articulate his second conclusion any further. Blankness is infinitely preferable to that.

* * *

On Tuesday afternoon, John is toying with the idea of making a furtive telephone call to Greg Lestrade. John is aware that what he’s considering isn’t a standard clinical approach to the problem he’s been presented with. To be fair, there is nothing standard about Sherlock. 

He isn’t pacing, isn’t complaining, isn’t shooting walls or committing musical assault. He isn’t, as best John can tell, even sulking. He’s just absent. 

His body is there, stretched out unmoving and unblinking on the sofa, but his mind is not. There are no tell-tale twitches of the fingers or eye movements to suggest he’s rummaging through his ridiculous mind palace, either.

John is beginning to find the silence oppressive. It’s hardly the longest one in recent history, but there’s something off about it. Something unsettling. Maybe it’s the timing, because that is all wrong. Supposedly, they’re in the middle of a case, but Sherlock is no longer engaged. He seems perfectly content to leave the rest of it to John, and that’s not like him. He should be, at the very least, pressing for details that might have been missed. He isn’t.

Sherlock doesn’t appear to be ill. His colour is an ordinary sort of pale. His eyes look a bit glassy, but probably not—

John baulks a little at continuing down this mental path, but it’s necessary, so he does. _Probably not drugged._ Is that a valid assumption? The only drugs Sherlock has specifically referenced using are stimulants. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t tried other things. Painkillers, say, or even heroin.  John has seen the scars on his arms. A predilection for one injectable substance doesn’t rule out all the others.

John glances over at Sherlock again. He doesn’t appear to be high. His breathing is slow, but still within a normal range. “Sherlock,” John says, and waits for a response. There isn’t any.

“Sherlock,” John says, again, more urgently, and he leans over him, blocking the light.

Sherlock blinks, and then he frowns. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” 

“I see that. What are you thinking, then?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock repeats. He closes his eyes. 

John watches his chest rise and fall for several seconds, and turns his attention upwards to his friend’s face. The scratches are healing now, pink skin emerging under cracked scabs. Sherlock hasn’t bothered to shave, and dark stubble pokes through around the edges. He looks raffish and disreputable. The effect is amplified by the fact that he hadn’t bothered to change his clothes after Mycroft’s visit the day before.

“Tired?” John ventures. 

“Not particularly.” Sherlock doesn’t bother to open his eyes.

“You look tired.”

“Why? Because I’m reclining? I’ve done nothing physically taxing.”

“Right. If you have been sleeping, I’ve missed it,” John points out. “Is this some sort of…mood?”

Sherlock sighs. 

“Look, I know you’re frustrated. It isn’t a proper case. Not really.”

“Surprisingly perceptive, John.” There is a thin glimmer of pale eye visible beneath his lashes now.

John takes a conscious decision to regard this as encouragement. “Understandable. You’re in a bit of a strop with Mycroft. But there’s still Marie Travers. Marie Morrison. The thing is, I’m not really sure what I’m meant to be doing now. I’ll see her tomorrow night. What did you want me to find out?”

“Anything you can. Have a conversation. Chat.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

“You’ll think of something.” 

Right. Of course. John chews at his lip. 

Sherlock opens his eyes. “Don’t overthink it, John. I’m not asking you to grill her. If I wanted that, I’d do it myself.”

“Yeah. See, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Problem?”

“It might be. I don’t like this. You’re sending me off again without a map or a torch. It feels…manipulative. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Historically, you’ve done more with less input. I assure you, I anticipate nothing dangerous or even terribly uncomfortable. You’ll do fine.”

“And you’ll do…what? Lie about the flat? Passively waiting for something more interesting to turn up? Scoring off your brother by dragging the investigation out as long as possible?”

“There’s a thought.”

“Yeah, not a very good one. This isn’t like you. Frustration makes you volatile. You pace, you wreck things, you take petty jabs at people. This… Well. It looks like you’re giving up. To be blunt, you’re looking depressed.” He pauses. _Might as well._   “Or do I need to rummage through your sock drawer?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Sherlock says, without much rancour. “I have a system.”

“I’m glad you care about that, if nothing else. Take a good, hard look at yourself, Sherlock. You’re letting everything slide.”

“And that isn’t allowed, is it?” His voice sounds dangerously calm.

John shakes his head. “No. It isn’t.” 

“I am clean. If that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind.”

“Do I need to show you my arms? There’s nothing to see.” He waits, hands hovering over the cuff of one sleeve.

“God. No. I—fine. I believe you. What’s wrong, then?”

“We’re not going to talk about _feelings,_ are we? It’s bad enough when Mycroft starts in.”

John snorts. “Oh, does he have some?”

“He accused me of having ulterior motives. Sending you off after that woman in some twisted attempt at therapy.”

A startled laugh escapes from John’s throat. 

“Oh yes,” Sherlock continues. “Apparently, I am trying to mend you. He accused me of arranging a veteran-to-veteran chat for the greater good.”

 _The greater good._ John smirks, imagining Mycroft in a black hood, but he’s reasonably certain Sherlock hasn’t seen Hot Fuzz and wouldn’t get the reference. “That’s…preposterous. He’s mad.”

“A certifiable megalomaniac, yes.” 

“I mean, I’m not. In need of mending. You know that. I know that.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Just…damn it.” John exhales with a whistling sound. “Frankly, I’m insulted.” 

“That wasn’t the goal.” 

“What, annoying me? Or what he accused you of? No, of course I don’t think _that._ ” John isn’t sure _what_ he thinks, but he’s reasonably certain Sherlock can be trusted on this point. Sherlock doesn’t believe in talk therapy. “To hell with him and his insinuations.” 

“Give me ten minutes,” Sherlock says. 

John looks down at him. “Ten minutes for what?”

“You’re feeling vexed, and therefore likely to suggest a walk. I’ll come with you.”

* * *

Their walk serves to edge Sherlock out of his grey mood. There are things to look at, and remarks to be made. At one point, John is nearly mowed down by a reckless cyclist on the footpath, and his resultant profanity-laced tirade is a glory to behold. Sherlock contributes to the cause by holding the capsized bicycle captive until John has finished his lecture. 

John tosses off a final remark as the bicyclist (thirty-two, living with his parents, semi-intoxicated, recently sacked for inappropriate use of office resources) wobbles away down the path, and dusts his hands together in satisfaction. “Idiot.” He grins at Sherlock. His eyes are shining, his cheeks flushed with pink. No, John is beautifully—almost painfully—alive. Nothing broken there. 

Sherlock grins back. “Therapeutic, was it?”

“We’ll keep _that_ between us.” John clears his throat, and folds his hands behind his back. “It’s probably wrong, but I think I’d like to keep going. You never know. Maybe we can break up a mugging.”

“If _that_ ’ _s_ what you want,” Sherlock begins, “I’d suggest—“

John stops him. “I’m joking. I think.” He’s still smiling, though. “God. To think I almost called Greg Lestrade today…”

“No point. There’s nothing on.” Sherlock hasn’t checked, but he knows this to be true.

“Maybe not. What about cold cases?” Sherlock grimaces, and John corrects himself immediately. “No. Right. I suppose we’re doing one for your brother.” 

“Yes.”

“Well, at any rate,” John begins, but there’s a buzzing sound emanating from his jacket pocket. “Phone.” He pulls out his mobile and looks at the screen. “Mrs. H?”

The conversation is brief: “Yes? Oh, he’s with me. A visitor? No, we’re in the park. On our way home, actually. Yes, all right. Yes. I’ll be sure to tell him. Thank you.”

“A client?” 

“Apparently. She’s brought him up to our flat. For tea.”

“Has she,” Sherlock says, speculatively.

“A very charming young man, she made sure to tell me. Oh, and cakes. I’m to tell you there are cakes.”

“Charming young men _and_ cakes. In our flat. Scandalous.”

“Lemon cakes,” John puts in, helpfully. “Come on. Maybe it won’t be boring.”

“Unfounded optimism, John,” Sherlock chides him, but they turn back.

The return journey is uneventful. Things become more interesting, when Sherlock notes a wisp of cream-coloured dog hair adhered to the doorstep of 221B. They take the stairs (more dog hair—a retriever), and Sherlock can hear Mrs. Hudson’s giddy laughter floating down before them.

 _“Charming,”_ he muses, bending to examine another tuft as John slips past him to get the door.

On the threshold, John opens his mouth, preparatory to uttering a greeting. Instead of words, he emits a gasp. Sherlock crowds in behind him to look over his shoulder. 

Mrs. Hudson has commandeered the coffee table to hold a tea service (the good one) and a plate of small yellow cakes. She’s seated at one end of the sofa, and Sherlock can’t see the other occupant because John’s head is in the way. 

“…enjoyed the one where you went to San Francisco. I used to live in the States, you know. In Florida,” Mrs. Hudson is saying. “Oh, I wish I could travel. Nowadays, I’ve got a hip. But you always make me feel as if I’m coming with you, dear.”

The reply is muted. Sherlock manages to make out the words, “…much too kind.”

“John,” Sherlock prompts, putting a bit of steel in his tone, because he still isn’t moving.

John looks up at him, eyes wide with panic. “Sherlock. Before you say anything, you should know that I didn’t expect—“

“Expect what?” Sherlock asks, deftly insinuating himself between John and the door frame.

“Boys!” Mrs. Hudson calls, looking up at the sounds of suppressed commotion emanating from the landing. 

Her companion is a tall man with curling fair hair. He is deployed against his end of the sofa with an effortless grace, possibly feigned. His face is half-obscured by a tea-cup held in a long, fine-boned hand, and the expected dog is resting beside his feet. Sherlock wonders whether John’s panic has something to do with the dog. It’s large, but obviously docile. Wearing a harness. _John really must get over this irrational fear of_ —

“I can explain,” John hisses at Sherlock in an urgent whisper, one hand pulling at his sleeve. “Look. Yes, all right. I met him. By chance. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I should have, I know. Only you were in Paris, and then…Honestly, I didn’t expect him to appear in our flat.”

“Who?” Sherlock asks, aware that Mrs. Hudson is now regarding the two of them with a puzzled smile. The visitor sets his cup down, revealing a patrician face and slightly unfocussed blue eyes. _Not looking. Listening. Of course he is; he_ ’ _s blind. Service dog. Service dog_ —

“ _Victor Trevor,_ ” John blurts out, just as the cogs in Sherlock’s mind click together, grate, and come to a grinding halt. 

The man on the sofa clears his throat. “I’m terribly sorry,” he says, in a pleasantly modulated tenor.

 _Radio,_ sputters a distant, deductive voice in Sherlock’s head. _Travel programme._ Everything else has gone unaccountably cold and still. 

“I shouldn’t have come without ringing first.”

Sherlock blinks, overwhelmed with a flood of visual information that isn’t accurate, isn’t current. Isn’t, in fact, seated before him now. A room littered with oddly-shaped books. A different dog. Darkness. Wooden benches. No. Pews. A chapel, in the dark. A different sort of darkness, and stars, but not real stars. These ones are the wrong colour. Each one bears five distinct points. Orion. A bed. Not his bed. Not his room. 

There’s a hand tugging at Sherlock’s sleeve. He shakes it off. “No,” he says aloud.

A hand. His own hand, holding a saucer containing an oddly shaped blob of clay. An armadillo. A ship. No, an opera house. _You_ ’ _re brilliant,_ Victor says, and Sherlock drifts into his orbit, into his hands. No. He exhales, and he’s looking up into blue sky, into twisted branches and rustling leaves. He could climb higher, but perhaps it isn’t safe. He’s reaching down, into a hollow in the—

“Sherlock.”

No. He’s standing by the door, and John is staring up at him as if he’s lost his mind. There’s something odd about the set of his mouth (new toothbrush, horror, guilt). 

 _Definitely guilt._ “Sherlock,” John repeats. “You don’t have to—if you’d rather not see him, I’ll ask him to leave.”

His face has gone creased with concern. Across the room, Mrs. Hudson is wearing a similar expression. “No. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t _look_ fine.”

Sherlock steps out into the room. Just a few paces; just enough to demonstrate acceptable levels of Fine _._ “I assure you, it is. Do stop flapping about. I’ve faced murderers. I am perfectly equipped to endure an unexpected visit from someone I knew at university.”

At this, there’s a muffled laugh from the direction of the sofa. It isn’t Mrs. Hudson. 

“Although, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to conduct this conversation in privacy.”

“Yes, all right.” John’s tone is grimly resigned. “We’ll go downstairs, then. Mrs. H?”

Mrs. Hudson stands. “If that’s what you’d prefer, dear.”

“It is.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll just…” She hovers over the tea service. “Perhaps John would like a cake.”

“Take them with you,” Sherlock suggests. “But do go. Please.”

As soon as they’ve gone, Sherlock crosses over to his chair. He doesn’t bother to remove his coat before sitting. “You’ve certainly made yourself at home.”

“She insisted.”

“After you were _charming,_ ” Sherlock grits out, between clenched teeth.

“I was _polite._ ”

“And John? Were you polite, or were you simply charming? Did you feed him fairy stories about the past and gain his sympathy?”

“This isn’t John’s fault,” Victor says evenly. “As you’ve gathered, we’d met before this. He and I had a brief conversation. I located your address on my own. He didn’t invite me.”

“No. And here you sit, uninvited. Why?”

Victor shrugs. He makes it an eloquent gesture. “I’m afraid I gave in to curiosity. You’ve led a fascinating life.”

“And you haven’t.”

Victor smiles at this statement. Sherlock finds the expression unsettling in its near-familiarity. “I wouldn’t say that. Mine _has_ been comparatively light on crime, but I’m not a consulting detective.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “You’re a radio presenter.”

“Ah. Does that leave a distinguishing mark?”

“Your voice. There’s an occupational trick of pronunciation. A cadence.”

“Even a novelty presenter has standards to maintain. I am, you know.”

“Travel,” Sherlock says, because he can’t resist. 

“Yes. I suppose now you’ll tell me you don’t listen to the radio.”

“Not often, no. But Mrs. Hudson does. You introduced yourself, and she couldn’t resist a chance to chat with a minor celebrity.”

“Very minor,” Victor agrees, ruefully. “I’ve no laurels to rest upon. Although I understand they’re rather prickly at the best of times. Heavy is the head, and all that.” He tilts his own head back against the sofa, momentarily exposing several inches of pale throat. “Or do you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy what?”

“Fame. I shouldn’t think you do. You’d have to like people, wouldn’t you?” Victor’s mouth quirks a little at the thought. “That was never your strong point. You find them interesting, so long as they present a challenge. I wonder about that. John Watson. Does he present a challenge?”

“John is my friend.”

“A very good one, it seems. I thought, perhaps, it was something more, but he disabused me of that notion. Rather vehemently.” He straightens, and reaches for his tea cup with uncanny precision.

“Vehement or not, it was none of your business.”

Victor laughs. “True. It isn’t. It’s a pity, though. That would have fit very neatly into the classic heroic mould. You’re very resistant to that, by all accounts. His, included.”

“You discussed me.”

“What else could we possibly have to discuss? He’s pleasant enough, mind you. Quite entertaining, in his way. Not, I think, as interesting as you. It stands to reason we’d discuss you. I’ve read his blog. He’s read mine. He wanted to know why I said the things I did.”

“Oh? And what did you say, exactly?” Sherlock stands, quite without meaning to. He shoves his hands down inside his coat pockets.

“It was just the one post, really. I suppose it was bound to raise some questions.”

“What sort of questions?” 

“Oh, very logical ones. Why a stranger was so insistent upon your abilities being genuine, for example. To be fair, I wrote it a bit over a year ago.”

“Interesting timing.”

“Yes, well. I thought you were dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Sherlock glances at the bison on the wall. John must still have the headphones. Ah. “You met with John. How did that come about?”

“Coincidentally. I was in my—in a café. John wandered in and took the seat beside mine. It seemed he’d recognised me. From my programme, I thought, and that was true, but then he told me his name. That he’d read my blog. Inevitably, your own name arose. We talked.”

“About me,” Sherlock prompts. The room feels much too warm now. He peels off his coat and drapes it over his chair.

Victor cocks his head at the sound of slumping cloth. “Yes. The blog post. I had mentioned knowing you when we were young. John wanted more detail, so I told him you and I had been friends at university. The expurgated version, if you’re concerned. I told him we had ended things on bad terms.”

“Did you tell him why?” 

“I did. Certain facets of the truth. I explained what you’d said to me, about my family. That I reacted irrationally, and everything went to hell from there. I also explained you hadn’t acted out of malice. You simply presented the facts as you’d reconstructed them, and I was caught up in grieving for my father.” He sighs. “I wasn’t capable of objectivity.” 

“Sentiment blinds.” Sherlock is unconcerned by his own choice of verb. 

“Yes,” Victor agrees, slowly. “It does. I’ve had years to think it over, and it’s interesting you should make that particular point. I don’t claim to know every bit of the truth, and I can accept that I never will. But I find myself haunted by the one possibility you failed to entertain.”

“Oh?” Sherlock spins on his heel—he has been pacing, apparently—and takes a step closer to the coffee table.

“Yes. You had the pieces of the puzzle. The car, the luggage, the things I left behind. You put the variables together, and they made an incontrovertible case. Or they did, but only if you eliminated the other possibility. I’ve read The Science of Deduction, you know. _Eliminate the impossible._ You thought you had, but under the circumstances, I believe you were biased.”

“I wasn’t.”

“No?” Victor frowns, and rubs distractedly at one crisp white sleeve. “I suppose I’ll have to spell it out, then. Motive. Opportunity. A certain familiarity with the mechanics of an automobile. Aptitude with a spanner. I’ll go one further, and suggest a general youthful failure to comprehend consequence. Oh, honestly, Sherlock. Did it never occur to you that it might have been _me?”_

Victor’s face has become very pale. He’s leaning forward, now, hands flexing against his knees.

Sherlock remembers the feel of those hands against his throat, in the dark. It hadn’t occurred to Victor then, though, had it? No. “You were ten.”

“Yes. I was. What were you doing when you were ten, Sherlock? I was stealing watches and telling lies.”

“That doesn’t make you capable of murder. When I was eight, I dissected a family pet. Some would consider that pathological, but contrary to popular accusation, I have never killed a human being.”

“Nor, I suspect, did you kill the cat. It was a cat, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I can only assume you wanted to know why it died.” Victor seems to find this thought amusing, but then his face resumes its previous sombre expression. “Extrapolation is all very well. I can’t rule it out because I don’t remember. That’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be ruled out. It would be difficult, after all this time. Further evidence might be found.” Sherlock isn’t entirely sure why he’s offering to delve into this quagmire again. Perhaps it’s the insinuation that he’d got something wrong. 

“I don’t know.” Victor runs one hand through his hair, over the hidden scar. “While I appreciate the offer, you don’t owe me any favours.” 

“If your suspicions are accurate, certainty would not constitute a favour.”

“Only by the strangest definition of a favour, I agree.” Victor takes a sip of tea. “Feel free to disregard the notion. Consider that another relic of youthful melodrama.” He returns his cup to the table, and adds, “I was, wasn’t I? Melodramatic.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer this. Instead, he studies Victor’s face. _Half a decade in Australia, at least. Possibly as much as eight years._ He’s more careful with his skin now, but there’s a certain amount of wear, visible in subtle lines radiating from the corners of his eyes.

“I regretted it, you know. Once the shock and anger wore off, I did. Far too late, I’m afraid. I have an unfortunate tendency to set things on fire. Relationships, in particular.”

“Clearly. You’d been living in a large house with a garden until quite recently. Now you’re staying in a hotel.”

Victor laughs. “Yes. How did you—Oh, don’t bother. I shouldn’t be surprised. Near enough. Not a hotel; I have friends who were kind enough to lend me their house. They’re in Spain. You’ve got the rest of it, though. Two years, thrown away in an instant. Every bit of it my fault. And it usually is. I am not satisfied with the ordinary, the comfortable. It’s never enough. I suppose it's a form of arrogance. Ned certainly seemed to think so.” He turns his head to follow Sherlock’s trajectory through the room. “You, though…you were never dull. I suppose that’s why it could never have lasted. You were so clearly destined for something I couldn’t have had any part in, and I knew it. So I burned it down; made it your fault, and my choice.” He stops. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to offer hollow apologies.”

“I wouldn’t accept them. There isn’t any point. I don’t dwell on the past. As you say, I’m not like you.”

“That you are not.” Victor leans down and runs his fingers over the dog’s glossy coat. Sherlock had forgotten she was there. “Still, I’d like to think you don’t hate me.”

“Hate implies a certain degree of familiarity,” Sherlock says. “How can I hate someone I no longer know?”

“Ah. That’s fair. You did, though.”

“I told you. I don’t dwell on the past.”

“Fine. Consider the slate clean, if you’d prefer. I suppose I don't know you, either, anymore." He sighs. "But...even if I never had, I'd find you interesting now. Two hundred-forty-three types of tobacco ash interesting.”

Sherlock stops pacing. “You’ve read that? No one reads that.” 

Victor smiles, somewhat sheepishly. “I did, though. I’m afraid some of the finer distinctions were lost on me. Too much focus on the visual. I was much more interested to read your perfume analysis, but you’ve left that one hanging.”

“I was dead at the time,” Sherlock reminds him. “New blog entries would have spoiled the effect.”

“Valid excuse. I ought to try that myself, sometime. No, but I really do wish you’d completed the study. It’s a subject I enjoy. I did a piece on scent once for Radio 4. The usual novelty angle, I'm afraid. I wasn't expecting much, but it was good. Fascinating, even. I interviewed a professional nose, and she was kind enough to let me try my hand at identifying various compounds." He shrugs. "And, well, I was slightly better than average, but I was forced to conclude that my abilities lie elsewhere. It’s probably for the best. No need to reinforce a popular fallacy regarding the blind.”

“Which one would that be?”

“Oh, you know. I’m blind, ergo I simply must possess uncanny, compensatory senses. I should be able to smell someone’s eye colour, or identify a type of paper by its sound when crumpled. I’m exaggerating, mind you. Of necessity, my focus on various environmental stimuli is narrower than most, and I have a good memory. That hardly makes me superhuman.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “Although it has a certain potential. Altered perspective.”

Victor laughs. “Well. I can identify a Tube stop by its ambient sound. But that’s probably just self-preservation.”

“I can do that myself,” Sherlock says. “With something close to seventy-five percent accuracy.”

“Impressive. My average is probably better, but as I say, for me it’s a matter of necessity.”

“Assuming you ignore the announcements, you’re counting the stops. Unconsciously, perhaps, but you are.”

“Oh, I do count them. It's a compulsion. But I’ve tested myself. Not recently. Years ago. A long weekend, a friend with a car…it’s strangely entertaining. You should try it. Blindfolded, of course.”

“You've failed to eliminate the stairs at the station entrance. Surely you count those, as well. A proper test, not a recreational one, would take those into account.”

“Yes. Care to devise one?  I assume your interest in the topic is strictly academic.”

“Not really. It’s the sort of thing that comes in useful.”

“In pursuit of the criminal element? Yes. I suppose it might, at that. Be prepared: the motto of the crime-fighting boy scout.”

“I was never a scout.”

“No, of course not. They don’t hand out badges for blood spatter recognition, do they? I was a scout. Did I ever tell you? Only very briefly. In one summer I managed to set fire to a tent and lose the keys to our scout master’s Citroen. I can only imagine the extent of the damage, had I continued. I wasn't allowed.”

“Mycroft was a scout. He used to practise tying me to things,” Sherlock admits. “Gates. Chairs. A lamp post.”

“Aha. So you were obliged to become an escape artist as a result.”

“Yes. He took that as further license to call it educational. I’ll grant him this much: it was.”

“Is it wrong that I find that hilarious?”

“Not really. And it's still useful. Every now and then, one of the criminal element decides to invoke the tired cliché of binding one to a chair. It never works.”

“No,” Victor laughs. Then his expression sobers. “And I'm forgetting myself. How strange this is. Sad. I don’t really have conversations like this, Sherlock. Not often. I wish I did.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, awkwardly. At some point, he had managed to perch himself on the armrest of the sofa without conscious intent. The opposite end of the sofa, but still. It irks him that he’d allowed it to happen at all.

Victor clears his throat. “And…I should apologise. It’s a bit unfair of me to monopolise your time in this way. To impose. But…thank you. For talking. For...the illusion, if nothing else.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak. What could there possibly be to say? _For a moment I forgot where I was? Who you were?_

Victor reaches down to grasp the dog’s harness. “Come, Penelope.” He stands, and the dog unfolds itself with a toothy yawn ending in a whine. “If you would be so kind as to find me my coat, I’ll show myself out.”

Sherlock locates the coat (camel: well-worn, but expensive) where Mrs. Hudson must have hung it on the hook beside the door. “Here.” He hands it over, avoiding the brush of Victor’s questing hand, and opens the door.

“Seventeen steps down,” Victor remarks, as he shrugs himself into his coat. “I did count.” He steps past Sherlock onto the landing, smelling faintly of tea and lemons (the cakes), and something more complicated: a heady mixture of cedar, ferns, and a deeper, mysterious note Sherlock cannot place. Perhaps he could identify it, given a moment more, but then he’d have to stop him. Best not.

As the man and dog begin their descent, Sherlock calls down, impulsively, “Why Penelope?”

Victor slows, but doesn’t stop. “Homer, of course. There’s a more obvious choice, but I’d hate to have anyone think I named her after a retail chain.”

“Argos.”

Victor does stop, then. He turns his face upward to the landing. “You remember the strangest things, don’t you?” 

Sherlock nods, and inwardly curses himself. “Yes,” he says. “I do.”

Victor sketches him an odd little salute, and continues downward. 

Sherlock watches them go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for taking so long! There was much agonising over this chapter. I hope I haven’t put you all off with this installment, because I am really looking forward to the (assorted moments of) unveiling. 
> 
> I have _many_ readers to thank for commenting on the previous chapter. Knowing you’re out there (still!) is an encouragement, and while it causes a certain amount of anxiety _(will they understand? will they forgive?),_ it is the very best kind. Still, I hope you won't go after me with pointed sticks for this one...
> 
> Special thanks to the newly-minted A_Tiger, who contributed the notion that Mrs. Hudson is a radio fangirl. Oh, and more thanks for putting up with me going into Annoying Writer Mode. I owe you some tigers, sir! 
> 
> While we’re on the topic of gratitude, I owe a massive debt (once again) to WhenISayFriend. She nobly agreed to beta part of her own gift story (dedication!) and also endured my antihistamine-blurred flailing over chapter 11 (before I finished chapter 10). And then there's all that laughing we did. AGAIN. I owe you, but not in a dancing stoat kind of way. ;)
> 
> Next time: John and Marie have a conversation that lasts longer than ten minutes, Sherlock does, in fact, find something to do (Mycroft will not approve), and John has yet another shock.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags are simultaneously restrictive and ambiguous. I know why they exist. I’m not certain this particular story benefits from their use. Sometimes I want to throw them all away. It's complicated.

John hears the front door closing, and waits a full five minutes before he makes his excuses to Mrs. Hudson and returns upstairs. He isn’t sure what he’s likely to find. Although he’d kept his ears trained on the floor above, that hadn’t told him much. No raised voices. No breaking glass. No slamming door. It’s possible the absence of sound was a good sign. 

He cannot help but remember how strange Sherlock had been when they’d encountered Victor Trevor in the park a few years ago. Sherlock had caught sight of Victor, conducted a bizarre silent conversation with John, and retreated unnoticed. Just another eccentricity to add to all the others, John had thought. Just another person Sherlock didn’t want to see.

This time was different. John stood in his own doorway, overwhelmed by panic and guilt, because Victor Trevor had somehow infiltrated 221B. The man had said he knew he wouldn’t be welcome, but there he was, and it was probably John’s fault. Sherlock didn’t seem to recognise Victor at first. Once he did, he went from mild irritation to Mind Palace—if that’s what it was—as if he’d been pushed into a swimming pool. He made it out again, but there was clearly something wrong. John knows Sherlock too well now to miss the signs. 

No, Sherlock was shaken, and he had asked John to leave. 

Perhaps John should have refused. He didn’t. He meekly went downstairs and imagined terrible things whilst pretending to carry on a conversation with Mrs. Hudson and listening for sounds of strife that never came. He had been fully prepared to charge up the stairs, had he heard anything alarming. What would he have been preventing if he had? He doesn’t know.

John does know this: he owes Sherlock an apology now.

He squares his shoulders, swallows hard, and opens the door. A quick scan returns nothing out of the ordinary.

Sherlock is standing at the window, looking out into the street. He isn’t wearing his coat.

“All right?” John asks.

“Hmm?” Sherlock turns, then, and he looks…fine. Not a hair out of place. 

John tries to keep the overwhelming surge of relief out of his voice. “I didn’t hear any shouting.”

“There wasn’t any.”

“Good. I’m not going to pry. I just wanted to apologise.”

“No need,” Sherlock says mildly. “No cause for concern.” 

This statement is, in itself, cause for concern.

* * *

Sherlock is indulging in a mostly-harmonious fit of musical experimentation the next morning when John comes down for breakfast, clad in his most porridge-coloured jumper.

“Haven’t heard that in a while,” he remarks.

“You’ve never heard it at all,” Sherlock corrects him. “It isn’t finished.”

“You know what I mean. You’re playing. Composing. That’s good. Isn’t it?” John is neatly dressed, his hair damp, his face still pink from the shower. 

“Is there a sudden need to apply values to my actions?” Sherlock asks. 

“Sorry. No.” John turns away, fixed on a predictable path towards the kitchen.

Sherlock stops him. “John. You’re not going to wear that jumper tonight, are you?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“The colour, to start.”

John’s face passes through a complicated series of expressions. “Why does that matter? It’s not a date, Sherlock. We’re not doing the Send John to Talk to The Pretty Lady and Pretend It’s Not an Interrogation thing.” He groans. “Oh no. Tell me we’re not.”

“So you do think she’s pretty.”

“Actually, I haven’t given it much thought. Why would I?”

“Why, indeed,” Sherlock says, tapping his bow against the music stand. “That jumper is unravelling at the collar, though.”

“Is it? Oh.”

John goes upstairs to change into something more flattering, and Sherlock congratulates himself on a job well done. Moths and nail scissors share certain abilities, and John really had spent far too much time in the shower. 

* * *

The message from Marie arrives later that evening, as expected. She names a pub that John has never been to before, but it’s easy to find. _Westminster, though._ Is that a concession, on her part, or does she also live nearby? _Hyde Park, the second time._ Sherlock knows, but he hadn’t said anything.

Sherlock would be very much at home here. It’s a listed building and the interior is all wallpaper, old books, and open fireplaces. In contrast, the young woman behind the bar is wearing a faded Sonic Youth tee shirt. This makes John feel old for two reasons. 

John doesn’t see Marie at first. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for: Job Centre Marie, or a slight figure in shapeless clothing and a cap. The bar is lined with tourists and city workers. All of them are wrong for different reasons: height, hair colour, or clothing style. Where would he sit if he was waiting for someone?

There’s a table at the back with a view, not of the door, but a gilded mirror. If he squints, he can make out his own image in the glass. And just beyond it, the shape of a person seated in the far chair. He starts walking.

“You gave that some thought,” Marie says. She’s dressed in a black track jacket, a grey jumper, and dark green cargo trousers. No cap, but the ends of her hair are tucked under her collar.

John slides into the overstuffed leather chair opposite hers. “Was that obvious? It occurred to me that you don’t like to stand out in a crowd.”

“Neither do you.”

John glances down at his own jeans, black jacket, and striped blue jumper. “That’s fair.”

“Do you want a drink? I do.”

“I think so. Yes.”

“I’ll get it. If you don’t mind.” 

“No, that’s fine.” John fishes a ten pound note out of his pocket and tosses it on the table.

Marie irons it out against the wood. “What do you want?”

“Beer?” John hadn’t exactly scrutinised the taps.

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay. That’s a bit broad.”

“Something…brown? Nothing weird.”

“Brown. Not weird. I think I can manage that. Wait here.”

John watches her push through the crowd. She has a knack for disappearing in plain sight. It’s as if she’s a stealth bomber: cloaked in a substance that rejects the light. _This isn’t blogable,_ he reminds himself. Even if it were, Alfred Hitchcock had already used the best potential title for one of his films.

John is glancing over old messages on his phone when she returns.

“Real ale,” Marie announces, setting two identical pints on the table. “Seemed safe.”

“Nothing weird about that.”

“Not here, no.” She sits and swallows a generous mouthful from her glass. Then she slides a modest collection of coins across the table. 

“Thanks,” John says. 

“So. Are we going to sit here and stare at each other, or are you going to tell me what you found?”

John blinks. God, she's direct. “Oh. Yes.”

Marie nods. “Go on, then.”

John clears his throat. “Letters,” he begins. “From someone called Joe Richardson.”

* * *

Sherlock is already on the stairs when he hears the brass knocker rap against the striking plate. Answering the door is an unavoidable, if thoroughly calculated necessity. Mrs. Hudson is out for the evening (ballroom dancing, to be followed by hip pain and herbal soothers) and John has been gone for twenty-five minutes. So far, so good.

He takes the remaining seven steps down and opens the door. There he is, Victor Trevor: hair, coat, and dog limned pale-golden in the lamplight. He’s withdrawing his hand from the knocker now. Slow, slow; effortlessly, artfully slow. His head is held just so (subtly inquisitive), his lips curving faintly when Sherlock says his name. He stands with the practised ease of a dancer, one hand on the dog’s harness, coat falling away from one slightly canted hip under the weight of the green glass bottle protruding from its pocket. 

“Come up,” Sherlock says, and starts up the stairs once again. He doesn’t look back; he can hear them following behind him. He had very nearly forgotten about the dog. Gladys would have made little huffs of complaint over the slight irregularity of the steps, but Penelope is very nearly silent. She is long-legged and elegant, as much accessory as guide. 

Sherlock wonders which came first: the coat or the dog.

He had left the door to the flat wide open. It’s easier that way to sweep inside and wait for Victor to follow without awkward courtesies or spatial adjustments.

Victor stops within the door frame, and Sherlock studies him for a few seconds before he speaks. “A bottle of wine? Really?” 

“A guest-offering,” Victor says. “Propitiation, if you like. I’ll admit there’s a bit of self-interest involved. I’ve had a harrowing day.”

“You never used to drink.” Sherlock had intended to avoid any mention of the past, but considering the time he’d recently devoted to its exhumation, something was bound to emerge. He could have said worse.

“I do now. All things considered, heredity wasn’t much of a deterrent.” 

“Your mother also drank,” Sherlock reminds him.

“My mother was miserable. Let’s not dwell on that, shall we?” Victor’s voice is pleasant enough, but his jaw is set otherwise.

Sherlock side-steps past Victor to shut the door. He does this with calculated force. It’s just loud enough.

Victor clears his throat. “Well, then. May I be rude and suggest you find us a corkscrew and a pair of glasses? I’m running on adrenaline.”

“Are you?” 

“Very much so.” Victor’s hand, though, extending the wine bottle, is perfectly steady. 

Sherlock reaches out to take it from him, but doesn’t allow their fingers to touch. If he’s going to break a barrier over fifteen years in the making, it won’t be like this. “You’ll remember where to sit,” he says, and turns away towards the kitchen. 

He can hear Victor talking softly to the dog in the next room as he scans the cupboards for wine glasses. They haven’t been used since Christmas. No. _A_ Christmas. The last one didn’t happen, beyond the most basic calendar notation. No drinks, no songs, no ridiculous reindeer jumpers.  

John (if not his reindeer jumper) is miles away by now. Sherlock certainly isn’t going to text him to ask where he put the glasses. That’s the sort of question that leads to other questions.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Sherlock glances down at the bottle. It’s an Argentinian Malbec, worth approximately thirty pounds.  He tucks it under his arm and selects two ceramic mugs from the drying rack; one solid blue, the other white and emblazoned with the RAMC laurels and caduceus. 

He collects the corkscrew from his desk drawer, and goes to join Victor in the living room. 

Victor has removed his coat and draped it over one of the chairs beside the sofa. His shirt is a dusty blue today, two shades darker than his eyes. The buttons are a dark-dyed mother-of-pearl, left open at the collar.  Penelope is lying at Victor’s feet, her head resting on one of her own extravagantly feathered legs. She looks bored already, and Sherlock is reminded, absurdly, of one of John’s ex-girlfriends. Gina? Jennifer? had worn much the same expression, but ultimately demonstrated considerably less patience than Victor’s dog.

“Ah, you’ve returned,” Victor says. “I had wondered whether you would.”

“I couldn’t find any glasses.” Sherlock deposits the mugs and bottle on the table. 

“You found something, apparently. Here. I’ll open it.”

Sherlock drops the corkscrew into his waiting palm, and stands watching as Victor deftly flicks it open. 

“Must you loom?” Victor asks, fingers brushing over the table in search of the bottle. “Sit, before you drive me to cork it through nerves.”

He doesn’t look particularly nervous, but then, Sherlock remembers, he never had. He seats himself at the opposite end of the sofa and watches Victor’s fingers remove the foil with languid confidence. 

“You'd better pour,” he continues, operating the corkscrew with admirable precision. Possibly long acquaintance, but the signs aren't really there.

“Yes. About that,” Sherlock says. “Any objection to coffee mugs?”

“I’ve had worse.” Victor holds the bottle out to him, and once again, Sherlock accepts it without making contact.  

Sherlock proceeds to fill their mugs rather gracelessly. Mycroft would be cringing in horror, if he could see him sloshing wine like this. He can’t, though. Sherlock is certain of that. He’d swept the shelves that afternoon, and John had said _Most accidents happen at home_ when he caught Sherlock balanced precariously on a rickety chair. He's right about that.

Sherlock slides the blue mug towards Victor’s end of the table. 

Victor tilts his head at the sound. “That speaks volumes.” 

“Does it?”

“Absolutely.” Victor runs a fingertip over the ceramic, catching up a drop of spilled liquid. “But you did invite me, so there’s that.”

“True.”

Victor’s mouth quirks up a little at one corner. He raises his hand to his lips and licks the wine away with his sharply pointed tongue. “Monosyllabic answers,” he says. “Do you intend to do that all evening?”

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock emphasises each syllable of the second word.

“Well then. What’s it to be? Fraught silence? Lively debate? Competitive Tube stations?” He takes a sip from his mug, and waits for Sherlock’s response. When there isn’t one, he frowns. “You did say you wanted to talk.” 

“No.” He had not, in fact, said that at all. What he had said, after three brief email exchanges was a brusque _You know my address. 7:15._

“Then you implied it.”

“No. You inferred it.”

“You’re splitting hairs.”

“Problem?”

Victor smiles outright at this. “Not at all. I enjoy a bit of lexical sparring.”  

Sherlock looks down at his mug (John’s mug). He wonders what to do with it. He could drink from it, or pour it out. Victor would be none the wiser if he did. “If we are to converse, I have certain stipulations.”

“Oh?”

“No literary allusions. No quotations, in any language. No references to our mutual past.” 

Victor tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “You don’t leave me much, do you?” 

“Consider it a challenge. ” Sherlock doesn’t bother to change his expression. He doesn’t have to.

* * *

John is scrubbing at his hands beneath the tap, more from habit than anything else. The pub owners had attempted to strike some sort of balance between Victoriana and modern plumbing.  He was acutely relieved when the pull chain on the toilet actually worked. 

John’s conversation with Marie had been progressing well enough. Starting off with Joe Richardson hadn’t been his worst idea. Marie's response was candid, surprisingly so in places.

 _A good kid,_ she’d said, and _Of course we all knew. I don’t mean to say they were obvious. They weren’t. I think it started over the radio, but I couldn’t tell you when. No one believed they’d get on, but in the end, it was as if they shared the same brain. Joe was always talking, and Sebastian was always silent, but put them on the radio, and they’d whisper together for hours._

_Sebastian was good. Frighteningly good. But he was also a bit..hyper-focussed. Obsessive. That’s useful, in a sniper, but it made him hell to work with. He was polite about it, but if he found someone distracting, that was it. They were done. We thought Joe would last a day at best. There’d be a complaint, and Sebastian would have another spotter assigned. But he never did complain. Never wanted to work with anyone else again. Eventually, that…extended to something else. No one expected that, either. I didn’t._

_And...there's that.  I suppose I should mention that we’d had a thing. Before Joe. Very casual. Something to do, because…when you’re just waiting, in between the heavy stuff, you get bored. You get lonely. Sebastian was…I guess I considered him a friend. Near enough. And it wasn’t serious or complicated. Not at all. Not even when it was over._

_Then there was Joe, and he was something very different. That went beyond partners or friends or occupying down time. I said they shared the same brain, almost, but it was more than that. I don’t mean to romanticise it. They weren’t romantic, you know? Nothing saccharine, nothing over the top. It just worked. Something that seemed like it had always existed and always would._

_Then Joe died and Sebastian went off the rails._

_What do you mean?_ John asked.

_Answering that might require another pint._

John offered to buy the next round, which also gave him an opportunity to relieve his bladder. He’d made far too much tea that day, and Sherlock hadn’t pulled his weight. 

Now he dries his hands and makes his way to the bar. Marie is still sitting at their table, but now she’s absorbed in her own phone and doesn’t appear to see him pass. She hasn’t left, so that’s something.

John places his order, and doesn’t bother to flirt with the girl behind the bar. She’s probably in her early twenties, and her smile is almost painfully perfect. Human teeth shouldn’t be that white, but he’s not a dentist, is he? 

He returns to the table, and Marie stuffs her phone into her jacket pocket. “Thanks.”

“Only fair,” John says. It seems a bit unkind to dive back in. He drinks, and he waits.

Marie sets her glass on the table after a moment. “You had mentioned Lariam.”

“Yes.”

“Because you know what it does. The side effects.”

John nods. 

“I expect we all did, really. Nothing straightforward. Nothing easily proven, but there was something wrong there.” 

“David Okoro,” John suggests.

“Yes. That’s what began it. His psychosis. But again, nothing was straightforward.” Marie looks up from her glass. “How far does this go?”

“What do you mean?”

“The information. What I tell you.”

“I don’t know. I think…it depends.” John chews at his lip. “You can keep it vague, if that helps.”

“I don’t know that it does.”

“We'll keep your name out of it. The person who’s asking…he’s discreet. In government, but discreet.” That’s true enough. 

“My name isn’t worth much to anyone,” Marie says. “That bit doesn’t matter.”

“Why didn't you change it back?” John asks. “From Morrison, I mean.”

“Why not?” Marie makes a wry face. “I wasn’t attached to Travers. To the best of my knowledge, someone selected it at random. No parents. For all I know, it could have been Smith or Patel.”

“Oh.” 

“Which, admittedly, made me perfect for the Pioneers. Better than Sebastian. He was Someone’s Son, in capital letters. He didn’t talk about it, but you could tell.”

“I’d heard that.” _An ambassador’s son, to be precise,_ John thinks. 

“Maybe that protected him when things went bad. Or maybe it made everything worse. Me, I didn’t mind shedding another layer when the opportunity arose.”

“Was that why you married? To be somebody else?”

Marie laughs. “Hardly. I did that for the usual reasons. I had been discharged. Brian was easy on the eyes and didn’t pry too hard or complain about my friends. Unfortunately, he lied about wanting children.”

John shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Oh. Sorry. Bit of a narrow window, I expect.”

“He seemed to think so.” Marie takes a drink and glances at John. Apparently, what she sees is amusing. “No. People always do think that. He was the one who wanted them, not me. Last I heard, he still hasn’t managed it. But he did let me keep his surname.”

* * *

Sherlock’s feet are on the table. It’s the sort of thing that John would roll his eyes over, but John isn’t here. That’s rather the point. 

Presumably, his evening is going well. John hasn’t sent any texts, although probability dictates he has had the opportunity. All that nervous tea should have sent him in search of the toilet facilities by now.

“….all over Sydney Harbour Bridge,” Victor is saying. “I’ll admit, I wondered what you would have made of that.”

“Not much,” Sherlock remarks. “An obvious accident.”

“Ah, but it looked like murder, apparently. I was…well.” Victor clears his throat. “Euphemisms don’t really work with the wrong verbs, do they? I was going to say I was _seeing_ a policeman at the time, but why bother with equivocation? I was conducting a brief and boring affair with a policeman.”

Sherlock ignores much of this. “Sydney Harbour Bridge,” he says, speculatively.

“Yes. What about it?”

“Sydney Harbour Bridge,” Sherlock repeats, but this time he pronounces it as Victor had, stressing mangled vowels and consonants to make his point.

“Oh hell. I didn’t. Did I?”

“You did.”

Victor grimaces. “That’s appalling. Pour me another mug, if there’s anything left. If I'm going to sound like that, I might as well earn it.”

“There is,” Sherlock says. He debates bending to reach the bottle without moving his legs, but it seems like a bad idea. Victor sets his mug on the table, and Sherlock swings his feet down onto the floor. “You were in Australia for eight years.”

“Good guess. Seven and a half.”

“Not a guess. Sydney, followed by Melbourne.” Sherlock pours wine into the blue mug, but doesn’t bother with his own. It’s still half-full.

“Now you’re showing off. Or did you look me up?” 

“No.” He hadn’t, actually. Anything he needs to know is perfectly clear without resorting to research. He glances at Victor, who is leaning against the armrest with one long leg bent over the other, his brown calf-shod foot tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table. Penelope has long since migrated away down the carpet, eyes closed and paws sporadically twitching as if she dreams of running. 

“Perhaps it’s for the best. God knows what you might find.”

“You did accuse yourself of murder,” Sherlock points out. “That’s regarded the apex of criminality.”

Victor’s lips thin. “So I did. Let’s leave that, shall we?”

“You didn’t.” 

“I should have. Oh! But with that, I believe you’ve just broken your own rules.” Victor extends his hand, lazily imperious. “I also believe you were pouring me a drink.”

Sherlock gives him the cup, but Victor catches his fingers before he can withdraw them. “No. My turn.” 

“Your turn for what?” 

“Observation. You have the advantage of sight, and you’re playing the part of a disembodied voice.” He manages to extricate the mug without relinquishing his grip on Sherlock’s fingers. “I wouldn’t call that an equivalent exchange.”

Sherlock applies conscious effort to the problem of letting his captured hand relax. He’d skipped over this basic step when contemplating plausible scenarios, and is relieved to find the contact unobjectionable. It’s a bit like static discharge. Fine. 

Victor’s head is bowed over their hands, so Sherlock studies his hair. Collectively, the strands occupy an astonishing spectrum: dark gold through something so fair, it’s nearly white. If it was tinted, it was done with remarkable skill. It occurs to him, belatedly, that Victor isn’t moving. He’s clutching the cup in his left hand, and wine has sloshed out over his wrist, soaking into his shirt cuff. His right hand is warm but curiously pressureless and still now. “Your hand is freezing,” he says, at last. “If I hadn’t been speaking to you just now, I’d be checking for a pulse.”

“I assure you, it’s there. Meanwhile, you’ve managed to pour wine down your sleeve.” 

“Have I.” Victor releases him and twists to set the mug down. He very nearly misses the table this time. 

Sherlock watches Victor fumble with his cuff buttons and roll his stained sleeve away from his wrist.

“That was appallingly clumsy. I can’t even claim to be drunk.”

“No,” Sherlock says. He isn’t, but he _is_ beginning to lose his poise. Good.

“And I suppose you find this amusing.” 

Sherlock’s eyes skim over Victor’s bared forearm, streaked purple with wine. “Not particularly. Do you want a cloth?” 

“Please.” 

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

Victor murmurs something in acknowledgement, but Sherlock doesn’t catch the words. He’s in the kitchen, running a dish cloth--and both hands--under the tap. Warm water would be best; something approaching a normal human body temperature, because Victor was right about that. 

When he returns, Victor is holding his stained arm suspended over the armrest. Sherlock nudges the dog’s legs aside and drops to the carpet. “Give me your arm.”

“I can manage.”

“I know.” Sherlock takes hold of him just below the elbow, and swabs at the skin as if he’s preparing an injection site. He pushes that thought away, sweeping the cloth down Victor’s arm in steady, methodical strokes. 

 _Calibration,_ Sherlock tells himself. He could do this much faster; following the purple-red stain as it winds over long bones, pale skin, and fine hairs, but he doesn’t. 

Victor’s arm tenses. “Well. Since you _have_ broken the rules, I can say that this feels all too familiar.”

“Oh?” 

“You and me. Essentially...disastrous. Dog bites, colliding heads—colliding tempers, in the end.” Victor manages to make this sound simultaneously wistful and bitter. “History repeating itself.”

Sherlock pauses with the cloth. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Philosophise. Generalise.”  He straightens Victor’s fingers and swabs at the webbing between them.

“Apologise?”

“Or that.” Sherlock has completed his task. He doesn’t release Victor’s hand.

“Thank you," he says pointedly. "I believe you’ve finished.”

“This bothers you.” 

“Of course it bothers me. You’re treating me like a grubby child.” Victor jerks his hand away, which has the unfortunate effect of sending Sherlock backwards into the dog. 

There’s a brief moment of shock, of suspension. Penelope yelps and scrambles to her feet. Sherlock does much the same, minus the yelping. 

Victor’s head appears over the armrest. “Did you fall on my dog?” 

“Yes.” 

“This is exactly what I was talking about. Are you all right?”

Sherlock dusts the dog hair off his trousers. “Yes.”

“Good. Penelope, come here.” The dog ambles over obediently, and Victor strokes her head. “And you're fine. Good girl. Lie down.” 

She does. Victor scrubs his hands over his knees (more dog hair), and says, “Sherlock.”

 _“I’m_ not going to lie down.”

“I hadn’t meant to suggest it. Will you sit, though?” 

“Why? Do I get a biscuit?” 

Victor makes a strangled noise of pure frustration. “No,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “You do not.” 

It seems the adrenaline released by falling over the dog was a clarifying influence. _Time to execute._ Sherlock tosses the dish cloth onto the table, where it lands with a sodden squelching sound. 

“What was that?”

“I threw in the towel.”

“Honestly?” Victor is laughing now, despite himself.

 _“Vita brevis,_  Victor, _”_ Sherlock says crisply, stepping over the table. “I don’t have all night.”

Victor tenses as the leather creaks and the cushions dip. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting.” He plucks Victor’s right hand off the sofa cushion beside him, and unbuttons his other cuff. He meets with no resistance.

“And now?”

“Asserting symmetry.” Sherlock neatly rolls his sleeve to just below the elbow. He slides his hand down to Victor’s wrist and holds it firmly caught between his thumb and forefinger. 

Victor doesn’t speak, but Sherlock can feel his pulse leaping against the pressure of his fingers. His eyes are half-closed, a faint flicker beneath the curve of his lashes. 

“I did invite you,” Sherlock says, deliberately speaking in a lower register. “But why did you choose to accept?”

Victor’s head turns to follow his voice. Sherlock can see his nostrils flare. “Does it really matter?”

“It might.” Sherlock slides his thumb down over Victor’s palm. His hand jerks: an involuntary response. “I have a theory. Are you interested?”

Victor swallows.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Sherlock threads his own fingers in between Victor’s and pins his hand against the back of the sofa. This requires minimal force. “You were going to try to seduce me.”

“Was I?” Victor’s voice is faint.

“Yes. I think you were. To be fair, I was going to let you.”

“Past tense.”

“Well spotted. Unfortunately, you seem to have lost your nerve.” Sherlock slides further to the left, until his leg is almost flush with Victor’s and their faces are separated by a space of mere inches. There’s that unusual scent again, wisping out beneath the wine on Victor’s breath. Sherlock says “Ah. Beeswax. Hidden under the wood accords, but it lingers.”

“I _am_ fond of subtlety.”

Sherlock catches his stealthily advancing left hand before it can make contact. “No. You’re fond of subtext. Not the same thing at all.” 

Victor’s lips part, but he doesn’t speak as Sherlock pulls his other hand up and back to join the first. There’s nothing subtle about that. 

His captive exhales shakily. His eyes are closed, but Sherlock knows what he would see if they were open: blue, becoming eclipsed by black. Victor’s visual cortex is faulty, but his pupils respond to darkness, fear, or desire as readily as his own.

And...oh. _Good night, Irene._  Because this is already  _so_ much more interesting than anything that happened under Paris. Of course, there’s the table. Sherlock pushes at it with his shin, just a little, just enough to open a space. If he’s careful, he won’t tip the bottle over. 

Not careful enough, it seems. He can hear it rolling over the edge onto the floor. Victor’s head jerks and he says “What—“

“Ignore it.” Sherlock doesn’t bother to look behind him (cleaning bill—inevitable), but twists himself upward and over, landing astride Victor’s legs. No, no one could call that subtle.

Victor’s shoulders fall back into the leather, and his head tilts to follow. It’s more indicative of submission than struggle. Sherlock leans forward in pursuit. This isn’t anything at all like being nineteen again, either. No blankness, no hesitation, no doubt of any kind. Just a faint tremor running through the long thighs trapped beneath his own, and the ragged sound of Victor’s breathing. 

Sherlock presses his mouth hard against Victor’s stretch of bared throat and feels the vibration of a subvocalised gasp beneath his lips. The skin tastes bitter there, almost metallic: that would be the cologne. His mouth should be rather different. 

Sherlock just manages to avoid knocking their teeth together—he hasn’t done this in years, not really—and yes, tastes acid wine on Victor’s lips. There is no questioning his cooperation now, no considering pause, although his wrists flex and then fall still. His mouth is warm and almost shockingly mobile, returning Sherlock’s pressure with interest. Sherlock ignores the uncomfortable twist in his own neck and the gap in the sofa cushions that threatens to engulf his knee. 

It’s certainly bizarre; there’s really no getting around that. Lips and teeth and tongues: how strange. Nerve endings and addicting physiological chemistry. It seems he had forgotten what it was like, or the memory had degraded, because sensory things often do. It's so much better than his reawakened memories had suggested: a thrillingly filthy sort of high. It's threatening to take him out of his head altogether, but he won’t let it. Not completely.

During their second oxygen break, Victor says “Can I have my hands back? You’ve made your point.”

“Have I?” Sherlock asks, but he lets them go. 

“I think so, yes.” Victor immediately sets his palms against Sherlock’s shoulders and adds, “Actually, could you… Sorry. You’re crushing my leg.”

“Oh.” Sherlock manages to extricate himself from Victor and the sofa without any further damage to the coffee table, his knee, or the dog. He’ll have to glue the handle onto the blue mug later, but at least it wasn’t John’s. 

“That...wasn’t an outright complaint. I didn’t say you had to leave.” 

“My flat,” Sherlock reminds him, carefully removing his jacket and folding it over the back of a chair. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m allowing you to rearrange your legs.”

“Ah,” Victor breathes. “And after that?”

“You have hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were still titling my chapters, the temptation to call this one _Cheating at Blind Man's Buff_ would be overwhelming. 
> 
> My apologies for ending this where I did. I’ve written most of the next chapter and I had to split it somewhere. 
> 
> If I'm lucky, 12 will appear before I leave the country next week. That is my goal. 
> 
> Feel free to complain about this (or any) chapter in the comments. The road ahead is a twisted one. I hope you'll consider continuing the ride.
> 
> WhenISayFriend: Massive thanks as always, and try not to punch me in the face _when I arrive (!!!)_ because of what I've written this time. Trust me...or if not me, trust the man with the umbrella. ;)
> 
> A_Tiger: Thanks for putting up with the process again. Patience, my dear fanboy. _Patience._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night of a thousand ellipses.

They’ve been talking for hours now, and Marie’s voice is starting to sound rough around the edges. “No one knew we were there. Almost no one. That’s important. Where we were sent, there were…let’s call them insurgents. That’s more or less what we were told. It was a village, or an encampment, or a compound. We moved in at night.  Silent shooting at the gates, and then explosives once we were in. It was a rushed job. We were prepared for opposition, or surprises. There wasn’t. There weren’t any. We went in, we got out, and we returned to camp. No injuries on our side. Unusual, but after the month we’d had, we were thankful for anything easy.”

“Yeah.” John is stacking pound coins on the table, putting them down in order by country, and then by theme. Plants. Animals. Architecture. He’s listening, he is, but his hands need something to do that isn’t drinking. “I expect you were.”

“The thing was, we’d been sent to the wrong location.”

John’s hands stop. 

“God, it’s weird, telling you this,” Marie says. “Things I haven’t really thought about in years, and when I did…” She shrugs. “There was some pressure, then.”

“You had to lie.”

“Exactly. So I’ve been thinking. I keep thinking. Trying to put it back together correctly, trying not to get any of it wrong. Not lying, just….leaving things out, for now. It’s all of it true, so why does it make me feel as if I’m lying?”

 _Remembering rewrites memory._ John had read that once, said something to Ella Thompson, his therapist. _Take control of your memories,_ she had been saying. _Share them. Put them into narrative form._

_You mean telling stories? I don’t think that’s an honest approach. Or a solution._

_No, John, that isn’t what I said. The act of description is empowering. That doesn’t change the truth of what happened. It might change your perspective. Is that so bad?_

_My perspective isn’t the problem,_ he had said. _It’s that—_

“He shot himself,” Marie is saying. “In the head.”

“Joe?” 

“Yes. That was the catalyst. That’s what set everything off.”

“What made him do it?”

“I’ve wondered. Too much time to wonder about it. It doesn’t matter. Maybe it was simply who he was. Just…Joe. He was an idealist, in his way. We all lied to ourselves on some level, but this was the sort of thing that doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. It was bad, no matter how you look at it. Not…honourable.”

“Honour’s a bit of a sliding scale,” John says. 

“No. You’re right about that. And you learn to accept that, or you get out. It takes…it takes a special sort of person to do the work. You can’t not care. You just…have to be flexible. See the long range, and hope no one was wrong.” She lifts her glass, and there isn’t much left. “This thing, though…as I say, it was bad.”

John nods. He doesn’t have much to say to that. It’s true.

“Civilians, and that wasn’t exactly new, but these people, they hadn’t…there was no reason. No conceivable threat. And now, I do wonder if that was the first time. Had no one said anything…but they did. We made it back to camp, and then the next day, they told us what we’d done. Not our fault, you might say. A communications breakdown, but it had to be buried. In the eyes of the world, it never happened.”

“Why did they tell you?” John asks. 

“I don’t know. It wasn’t official. It was…a series of rumours.”

“And those move fast. What happened after Joe died?”

“Everything, really. I’m not sure what came next. Maybe I was, once, but I just…time fucks it up. You remember what happened, but the sequence is lost.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I know what you mean.”

Marie looks into her glass. “Everything rotten rose to the surface after that. All the things that we were going to sort out later. All those people I couldn’t have pulled off duty, because they were just sane enough to do their jobs. Fit for service, no matter what I said. Well, that came to a head. They lost their shit, and like everything else we ever did, when they snapped, it was fast, and it was thorough. David disabled the comms. Sebastian took out the officers. Shot them, and they never saw it coming.”

“Jesus.” 

“Acting alone, according to him. Because…he thought that was somehow important for me to know. I didn’t see it happen. He told me later, because I wasn’t there.”

“What were you doing?” John asks. 

Marie looks at him. “What would you be doing?”

“I don’t know.” John considers everything she’s said before. All the things she’s described as if they happened to someone else, leaving out dates and locations. Blowing things up, making explosions look like landslides. Smaller things. Darker things. Taking people out, singly, in places without an obvious military presence. Preventing movements before anyone thought they could occur. Acting against treaties, breaking laws, breaking rules. Not existing to anyone beyond themselves, answering only to other people who didn’t exist. Marie, herself, multitasking: doing surgery, setting charges, questioning prisoners. Writing notes that no one read, making requests that no one heard. “I…don’t, really.”

Marie keeps looking at him. She nods. “Not a high point, looking back. Not that month. Not that week. That day, as it happened. But like I said, it was all too easy. No scratches. No dents. No resistance. No distractions. And nothing to do once we made it back to camp. I heard the rumours and I…Fuck, I hadn’t slept for days. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t get to sleep, either. I cheated.”

John says “What did you use?”

“I had the keys. The whole fucking pharmacopeia. But I’d never rifled through the cupboard on my own account. Morphine seemed safe, if I didn’t take much. Just enough to miss the shouting, that’s what I thought.”

John doesn’t speak. He just picks up his glass, and drains the rest of the contents. 

“I said we were friends, and I guess we really were. They came to get me, before they set fire to the camp. To the…to the bodies.” She isn’t looking at the table now. Just looking at John, face blank, brown eyes half shuttered, and god, it’s strange that some people think eyes are a window on anything. _Rubbish,_ according to Sherlock. _Extraocular muscles, that’s what gives them all away._

Anything this awful—any of it at all—ought, by rights to leave a mark. Ought to etch itself into a person’s face forever, but it hasn’t, not in hers. Not that John can see. He blinks. He keeps looking. He sees lines around her eyes, but they’re the sort that come from sun, from being alive. Marie could be anyone, to look at her; anyone, but not the person telling him this story, in this voice that stops and falls. 

John doesn’t believe in therapy, knows that telling him this hasn’t changed her. It might, in future, make some difference. Just now, it isn’t very much. He looks across at his tower of coins, tilting sadly over at the corner of the table. He says, “I think I’ll stand this round.”

* * *

Sherlock stands with his back to a door, considering the problem of the location updating effect. It doesn’t apply to him, not in any way that could be considered standard. He never walks through a doorway and abruptly wonders why he’d entered that room to begin with, short term memory overwritten by the human brain’s ridiculous need to re-establish spatial relationships at every turn. He never, as so many people do, stands like a stunned cow in an abattoir, muttering _I know I came in here for something…_ No. If the phenomenon affects him at all—and really, it stands to reason that it does not—it takes a uniquely different form. It is simply that, somehow, given a door frame as a reference, rooms have a tendency to become other rooms. Not often. Just the odd glitch, over in a fraction of a second, an artefact of the Method of Loci. Mind palaces—his, in particular— tend to incorporate an alarming number of doors.

This one, his bedroom door, is closed. He’s leaning against it, looking at his bed. His bed in Baker Street, occupied by Victor Trevor.

Victor is lounging against the headboard as if he belongs there, arms folded behind his head, and shirt discarded by his side. Here and now, to be certain, but the phrase _No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service_ runs through Sherlock’s mind, just the same. It’s nothing to do with Victor at all, that memory. That had been Florida, years ago. Danny’s Beer and Bait: a grotty little shop with an overpowering smell and a dingy back room filled with paper sacks that had proved very interesting to the local police. Or at any rate, they—

“Sherlock?” 

Victor is talking. He had been before, but whatever it was, Sherlock had missed it. Important? He doesn’t know.

He glances at Victor again, and it’s…odd. It should not be so strange to see a living human torso, unmarred by wounds, sutures, tattoos, or scars. Yet it isn’t the sort of thing Sherlock often has occasion to see, beyond the occasional fleeting glimpse of John—living, but scarred—towel-clad in the hallway. Now Victor is here, human, alive, largely unscarred, and—it’s passing idiotic to dwell on the novelty of it now.

“Sherlock,” Victor repeats, and it’s sharper in tone. “What are you doing?” 

“Looking at you.”

“Ah,” Victor says, and does not move. He’s managed to find the light, and is it accident or art? He’s a series of beautifully executed angles. “That’s a bit…unsettling.” 

“No, it isn’t.” 

“Yes, it is.” Now he’s shifting up and unfolding his arms. He looks as if he’s about to cross them over his chest, but instead he settles his hands against his thighs, pale fingers splayed out over golden-brown tweed. 

“Why?” Sherlock asks, impatiently. “You’re aware of your own attractive qualities. You’re accustomed to being seen. You positively demand it of the eye.”

Victor’s eyebrows raise. “That was not a compliment. Was it?”

“An observation. Merely that.”

“Really? It sounds like an accusation. You think I’m vain.”

“You’ve more excuse than most,” Sherlock says. “I’ll admit, I find it odd. So much effort expended over a realm you can’t perceive yourself.”

“What effort?” Victor’s brow is furrowed in a way that doesn’t bode well. “What do you mean?”

“Your clothing. The way you move. It’s perverse. Fascinating, in its way,” Sherlock says, but he ought, perhaps, to stop. 

“Right. I see. Making an effort—any effort at all—is perverse, because it conforms to the social compact?”

“Do you mean an arbitrary set of rules governing appearance and behaviour? Then, yes. The social compact.” 

“Arbitrary,” Victor says, “but universally agreed. And yes, _perversely_ —interesting word—it is applied to everyone, justly or otherwise. The broken and the grotesque inspire pity, and that’s an emotion born of base, instinctual fear. Fear breeds resentment. Present a decent appearance, however, and people positively yearn to contribute to the illusion. Choosing colours, making suggestions, generally taking one in hand. They’re happy to be of service, and I thank them for making me better than I am. My appearance, is, if anything, collaborative. And the way I move? That’s….me. Finding my way in space, like anyone else. Relying on memory and guesswork, in my case. Being cautious. I’ve only had most of my life to learn.”

“I know,” Sherlock says. “You have elevated caution into art.”

“If I have, I suppose you can put that down to vanity as well. Despise me for wanting to function as something I am not.”

“Why would I despise anything I find fascinating and rare? It’s an adaptive behaviour, and a successful one at that.”

“That you so happen to find contrived.”

Sherlock looks at Victor, at the angry spots of colour blooming over his cheeks, the perfect, unwavering tension of his hands. “If it is contrived,” he says, slowly, “does it matter? I look at you, and I want to keep looking at you. I want to observe you in every detail, until nothing about you remains unseen by me. And even that is not enough. I want to touch you with my hands. That is not…a feeling I’m accustomed to.”

“And you dislike it.”

“It’s irrational. So, yes, to some extent, infuriating.” Sherlock closes his eyes. “I am…I am exceedingly bad at this. I give insult where I ought, I think, to express something altogether different.”

“Or the insult was my own interpretation,” Victor says. “Okay. You’re being honest. And if we’re to speak of things that are either rare or fascinating, I suppose I find that…oddly glorious. Unvarnished.”

Sherlock exhales. He has not, it seems, reduced this fragile thing to ash. He allows his legs to take him to the foot of the bed, to bend and sit as if it might make sense. He says, “I have made a study of adaptive behaviours. For the Work. I can convincingly appear to be almost anything that suits my purpose. But I can’t sustain the falsehood for very long. Inevitably, I make mistakes.” Victor opens his mouth, and he hastens to add, “Your…adaptations are an intrinsic part of you. Learned, perhaps, acquired, but not dishonest, not in any meaningful sense. No more so than a chameleon or a cuttlefish could be called false for simply using the tools that evolution has provided. That is what I should have said. It’s…still inadequate. But for now, that’s the best I can do. Is that…any better?”

“Yes,” Victor breathes. “It’s…fine. Do you still…God.” He swallows. “What you said before, that I had come here to…that I had an ulterior motive, if you like. That’s somehow easier to say. I didn’t, really. Nothing planned.”

“Ah.”

“But that isn’t to say the concept was unwelcome. It was there, I’ll admit that. But really, I just wanted to…be reacquainted. To talk. And you surprised me. You were…”

“A bit physical, perhaps,” Sherlock says. “Did you object?”

Victor flushes. “No, I…obviously not. Just…mixed signals. Then. And now. I’m not certain of your intentions.” His mouth twists, momentarily. “Dear god. That sounded…like something out of a prim and proper novel for young ladies. Sorry.”

“Rather prim, yes.” Sherlock clears his throat. “My intentions remain much the same, if you’re amenable.”

“I am. Yes. Only…before. In the other room…?”

“Yes?”

“That was intense. Fantastic, but…frightening. It felt almost like...revenge.”

Sherlock doesn’t say that it wasn’t. He says, “Do you find that notion insurmountable?”

“I’m not sure. Does it spoil it now I’ve told you that I knew and didn't care?”

 _“Le Vol des Insectes,”_ Sherlock says. “A scientist once used mathematics to demonstrate that a bumblebee couldn’t fly.” 

Victor does not ask why this is relevant. He says, “But they do.”

“Yes. His calculations were faulty, and ultimately, disproved. Yet people still remember what he said. They believe bumblebees perform the impossible, against the evidence of their own eyes.” Sherlock stands once more, steps forward and switches off the lamp. “The bees? They always carried on, unaffected by the whims of human beings.”

He slides down into his bed. It isn’t entirely dark, not with moonlight streaking in through the curtains, yet Victor is nothing but an outline, now. Dark and light and mostly hidden. It’s very nearly equitable. Close enough. Sherlock reaches over, sliding his hands into the silver-etched curlicues of Victor’s hair. It is warm and silky and rough about the roots. Like his own, and also not at all. “Not revenge,” Sherlock whispers. “Just…something. Does it matter what it is?”

Victor still tastes of sour wine. He smells of twelve distinctly different things, each and every one of them compelling. He feels warm and lithe, and when his hands come up over Sherlock’s spine, they might as well be igniting thousands of molecular lamps inside it. 

 _No. That’s not—neurons, for fuck’s sake_. _They’re called_ _neurons._  

Sherlock exhales against Victor’s lips. Into his mouth, and it opens. Lips moving, tongue curling, words lost. Just breath. He breathes.

* * *

John wonders why more interrogations don’t involve drinks, because talking is so much easier after another round. He thinks it must be getting late, but he doesn’t look at his phone to check the time. He chews at his lip and says, “I saw the list. If it’s accurate, there aren’t very many of you left.”

“No.” Marie flicks her fingers against the side of her glass. “Not many to begin with, and fewer by the year.”

“But you know where everyone is.”

“I do. Sebastian started it. Tracked us down, and made a list of his own. Did…whatever needed to be done to keep us on it. Kept us in communication, oddly enough. When he died, I just…kept on. I thought that someone should.”

John nods. “Did he give you the gun?”

Marie’s mouth tightens. “If you’re asking whether it’s illegal…”

“No. Just curious. And I’d show you mine,” John tells her, “but I didn’t bring it here. It’s ah, got a bit of damage where some numbers used to be.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Someone lost the paperwork, and well. I had the keys.”

That’s a hell of a joke to have made—he must be mad—but she smiles, wryly, nonetheless. “Things happen. Mine, though, it belonged to someone I never knew.”

“Okay?” He waits.

“I might as well tell you. Considering. After everything else, why not? So. This was…years ago. After the marriage, before the vocational guidance counselling.” 

John’s face must have twitched, because Marie says, “Yes. I know the sketch. _Everyone_ knows the sketch.”

“Sorry.”

“Ha.” She waves her index finger at him. “Don’t think we never sing the song, because we do.”

John laughs.

So does she.

Then she gets back on course. “Right. The gun. I was on a work programme for former addicts. I talked to them, wrote them references, that sort of thing. One of them, I’ll call him Tommy. Tommy came to me one day and he told me he was worried about his older brother, Gary. They lived together, and he hadn’t been home for a week. Tommy was clean, but his brother was not. Tommy’d asked around, and he thought he knew where he could find him, but he didn’t want to go alone. Not a very nice place, that. I agreed to come along.”

“Where? To a…crack house?”

Marie shrugs. “More or less. I think heroin was the drug of choice, but yes, pretty much that. Tommy knew I had medical experience. I think he suspected it wasn’t going to be okay.”

“I take it it wasn’t. Okay.”

“Not really, no. We found Gary, all alone. Overdose. A few days before, by the look of it. Pretty awful. It was summer. I told Tommy we’d have to bring in emergency services, and Tommy said _I have to go with him._ I said, _Yes, of course. Is there anything else I can do?_ That’s what you say, isn’t it? _”_ She spins her glass in her hands. “He asked me to go to their place. I said I would. And then he told me why. Gary had a number of items he shouldn’t have, squirrelled away in their bedsit. A gun. Tommy asked me if I could make it disappear. _Turn it in to the Met,_ he said. _Or whatever._ I told him I would.”

John cocks his head. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” she says. “I planned to. I really  did. But I picked it up, and it felt…well. You know how it feels.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I really do.”

* * *

This, too is nothing like the memory. 

They communicate now in mirrored hands, in impulse and echo. Fingers sliding over skin, under cloth, and tracing bone. 

Sherlock moves, and Victor moves. Victor breathes, and so does he.

Nothing hurried, nothing forced. No words, no misconstruction of intention or of thought. Only circuitry, closed. Only symmetry.

* * *

John is walking home now, and maybe he’s a little drunk. His feet navigate the street without much conscious input from his brain. That last round? Probably a mistake. Not mistake enough that he made any, or one in particular. He’d had an impulse, and he hadn’t let it become anything. 

It was just that alcohol tends to make all moments feel the same. They were standing outside the pub, John and a woman he’d felt a connection with, outside a door in semi-darkness, and—

 _Yes. That would have been bad._ Because he knows too much about Marie, who she is, and what she has done. They’d talked about terrible things, they’d laughed, and it was awkward and easy and…he really did want to kiss her. Wanted to, but didn’t. She’s a client, or a witness, or… He still wonders what she would have done, if he had. If they hadn’t, quite absurdly, shaken hands and agreed to keep in touch, instead.

But he is drunk, and not, as a result, inclined to rational judgement. Just now, he’s inclined to let his feet take him home, to talk to Sherlock and submit to gentle derision. It’s only fair. He’ll be mocked, and then he’ll say, _Yeah, it isn’t how you would have done it, but it worked, so lay off me._ And Sherlock will make some crack about John’s human frailty, and then they’ll become serious. John will talk, and Sherlock will listen, and then, maybe, he’ll be lost in thought, and John will go to bed. Sleep like the dead and hope he doesn’t wake with a hangover, the one he deserves.

But that isn’t what happens at all, because after John finally makes it up the stairs, and fumbles with the door, it’s dark inside. He switches on the light, and glances at the sofa out of habit. Sherlock isn’t there.

No, Sherlock isn’t there, but the coffee table is pushed askew. It bears a purple-stained cloth wadded into a ball, a corkscrew, and his RAMC mug. John looks down at the carpet, where the remains of a bottle of wine seems to have bled out its contents after a struggle. Another coffee mug—the blue one he’d washed that morning—is peeping out under the table, and its handle is missing.

John has seen some odd experiments-in-progress, but this, pedestrian as it seems by comparison, strikes him as somehow odd and…wrong. He looks again, looks wider, looks up, looks down, and adds things together. Two mugs (one broken), one wine bottle (tipped over), the table out of place, a black jacket (Sherlock’s) folded over one chair, and a camel-coloured coat flung over the other. “Fuck,” John says aloud. “He came back.”

Victor Trevor returned. Was there an argument? Why else should he leave without his coat? Did he or Sherlock knock the bottle over? Who broke the mug? John reaches into his pocket for his phone, but the screen displays the time and nothing more. No messages.  

The alcohol isn’t helping, hitting him harder now that he’s stopped. Vision blurred around the edges, and a touch of vertigo. He should drink some water, and try to think, if he can. Turn sight into observation. He can, if he tries.

John sighs, and stumbles into the kitchen. That looks chaotic, but not alarmingly so. He turns on the tap, and hears a whining sound. Not the pipes, something else? He shuts the water off again, and the sound repeats itself, this time followed by an odd sort of shuffle against the linoleum. “Fuck,” he says again, because there’s a dog under the table. 

It’s Victor’s dog. She stretches and whines and clicks towards him across the floor, large brown eyes fixed on his with a pleading expression. “What are you doing here?” he asks. She shoves her face against his hand, begging for something. “Do you want a drink of water?” 

She wags her tail enthusiastically at the sound of his voice, although he’s fairly sure she has no idea what he’s just said. He turns back to the tap and fills a bowl for her, setting it down on the floor in front of the refrigerator. Then he fills a glass for himself, because he’ll be damned if he deals with this—whatever it is— in a state of dehydration.

The dog laps at the water with abandon, splashing water onto the tiles. John drinks his own with more restraint, staring at Sherlock’s bedroom door. It’s closed. That doesn’t means he’s here. It means something. What does it mean? He’s drunk, and there’s a dog in the kitchen, and— John gingerly sets the empty glass in the sink, and turns back to look at the unfathomable door. _Think._ Was Sherlock’s coat hung by the entry? If someone had…needed to go to A &E, he would have taken that with him. No. Broken objects don’t always result in someone going to hospital. Maybe Victor’s downstairs, although it’s a bit late for him to be talking to the landlady, no matter how well they hit it off. And no, her lights weren’t on. Okay. He raises his hand. _Just knock. Just see if he’s there, and this will all be sorted._  

Just John, leaping to half-baked conclusions. That’s what it must be.

Before he can do it, the door creaks open. A long-fingered hand emerges around the frame, followed by the sleeve of a familiar dressing gown. 

Thank god. “Sherlock, there’s a dog in the—“ John stops, steps back in alarm. The dressing gown is definitely Sherlock’s, but the face and form that follow are not his.

“Sorry, no,” Victor Trevor says, yawning. “Is it urgent?”

“Where’s Sherlock? Has something happened?”

Victor steps out of the room, drawing the door closed behind him before John can peer into the cryptic darkness within. “He’s fine. He’s asleep.”

“Is he?” John doesn’t bother to keep his voice down. “I think I’d rather see for myself, if you don’t mind.”

Victor doesn’t move aside. “You really ought to take my word for it. Less embarrassing for everyone, I think, if you do.”

John gapes at him. “Less—oh. Oh god.” He takes in Victor’s tousled hair, the almost violent redness of his lips, and the dressing gown displaying more pale, nearly-hairless bare chest than he really needs to see.

“Ah. I’ve shocked you,” Victor says. “I’m sorry. That was inconsiderate.”

“No…I’m just…surprised.” John gapes at the door. “You, and…er. Right. Fine.”

The dog takes this opportunity to nudges past him and whine up at Victor. He strokes her head. “Penelope. I suppose I’d better take you out. You must be desperate.”

“I gave her some water,” John says, trying not to notice the faintly abraded pink of Victor’s jaw and throat. _Beard burn,_ his brain supplies, against his will.

“All the more reason.” Victor frowns. “Are there…There aren’t any exposed nails on the stairs, are there? Only I’m not certain where I left my shoes.”

“I don’t…think so.” John clears his throat. “But you’re not…dressed.”

Victor’s lips curve in amusement. “Sorry. No. I hadn’t intended to…put on a spectacle. Sherlock hadn't mentioned you'd return.”

John exhales. Twice. His hands are clenched into fists, for some reason. He says, “I’ll take her outside. Less bother. I assume you’re…staying.”

“Yes. I think I am. Thank you.” 

“No, that’s…fine,” John says, and reaches down to take hold of the harness. _Well done there, Watson. You face the invader, and you bloody well volunteer._

Penelope seems slightly startled to be led, but she’s incredibly docile. John takes her down the stairs, grateful that shock has cleared his head of alcoholic fumes. “Jesus,” he mutters to himself, fumbling at the front door. The dog looks up at him, her furry eyebrows raised. “No,” he tells her. “I’m not blaming you. You’re just along for the—you’re just his dog.”

John stands, ramrod straight, beside the door and waits for her to perform her doggy ablutions. “Jesus mothering _fuck,”_ he mutters.

Naturally, a woman happens to be passing him on the pavement as he does, swaying a little on overly-high heels, or maybe she’s drunk, as well. She scowls, and veers closer to the street.

“Don’t mind me,” John calls out after her. “I’m just _out with my dog.”_

She mutters something of her own, and hurries away. John resists the urge to say something awful, because that would be displacement. Any…anger he feels really ought to be directed somewhere else. Anger, or let’s be honest: consternation. Shock. His worldview needs adjusting, but no one owes him an apology for that. He shouldn’t be feeling angry, or let down, or deceived. It’s just a surprise. 

So the balance of the earth has shifted a little, that’s all. John had been out for drinks with a woman he wasn’t dating, had a reasonably decent time despite some grim subject matter and awkward silences, and all the while, his ostensibly celibate flatmate had been—Well. Doing something else. That’s fine, it is, and John can only hope he’s never— _God._ No, he has. John has always been first out the gate with the _I’m not gay,_ never thinking for a moment that he might be insulting Sherlock when he said it. 

Penelope whines at him. She has finished urinating against the railing, and now she looks bored. “To think I wasted all that time worrying about Irene,” John tells her, and she shoves her wet nose against his hand. “Sorry,” he says, drying it against his leg. “You’re…very nice, but I’m afraid I’m a bit of a cat person, if anything. No offence.” He sighs. “Let’s face the music, shall we?”

When he enters the flat, Victor is seated in the kitchen. He has far too much long bony leg on display for John’s taste. And this, too, is probably an unfair assessment. 

_No, it is. God damn it._

John releases the dog and pulls up a chair. “That’s sorted,” he says quietly. 

Victor nods, gravely. “Thank you. You didn’t owe me that. And forgive me. This must be unspeakably awkward for you.”

“Comes with the territory. Not this, specifically. Just…things. I assume he’s still…” John nods towards the closed door, but realises the gesture is pointless. “…sleeping,” he finishes, weakly.

“Yes. I think he’s out for a good twelve hours. He never did sleep much, but when he did… Well. I’m only assuming he hasn’t changed.”

John frowns. “So this…isn’t new.”

“What?” Victor asks. “Sherlock deigning to sleep?”

“You knowing anything about it,” John says evenly. “Was there something you neglected to mention? About your previous relationship? You said he was your friend. I’m beginning to think we define that somewhat differently.”

“I didn’t lie. I merely omitted one specific detail.”

John snorts. “Was that a university course? Or are the two of you simply halves of a special edition boxed set?”

Victor blinks at this. “I’m sorry?”

“Never mind.”  John scrubs a hand over his aching head. It doesn’t help. “Right. Okay. Haven’t had to do this in a long time,” he begins.

“What?” Victor sounds apprehensive, if he doesn’t look it. _Good._

“I’ll get through the quick version,” John says briskly. “First, some questions. Drugs?”

“What?” Victor looks taken aback. “No. I’ve never… No.”

“Good.” John clears his throat. “Excessive drinking?”

“Not…No.”

“Unhealthy obsessions with…” John trails off. “You know what? Skip that one. It’s Sherlock.”

Victor laughs at this. “I’m not actually a criminal.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t mean much.”

“Very likely not.” Victor smoothes the dressing gown closed over his chest. “Do go on.”

John looks away. Where was he? _Oh._ “What about your boyfriend. Ned?”

“That’s finished,” Victor says. “And wholly unrelated. Whatever you may think of me.”

“Okay. That’s…your business, I suppose.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Right. Fine. I just… Look. Don’t blog about him. Sherlock, I mean. He doesn’t need that sort of attention.”

“I honestly hadn’t intended to.”

“Good. Don’t blog about him, and don’t… Don’t play games with him. He’s my best friend, and I will not stand by and watch that happen.” John raises a finger, and damn it, he _is_ still drunk. He drops it and continues speaking. “So…yeah. I don’t know what he was like before. I don’t know what your relationship was like, but what I’ve gathered does not impress. If this isn’t just a…one-off thing, you ought to know that. Don’t take advantage of him, or I will find out. I will know, and I don’t think you’d care for the result. For what it’s worth, I have a short temper, a decent knowledge of human anatomy, and a gun.” John swallows, and adds, “Oh. And I’ve killed people, to protect him. I’d do it again. If necessary.”

Victor smiles, slightly crookedly. “Goodness. That was impressive. Something of a first, in my experience. Well, no. There was his brother, come to think of it.”

“You’ve met Mycroft.”

“We’ve spoken. Not recently. He was…memorable.”

John’s laugh comes out in a bark. “Memorable. He is that, to be sure. If you spend any time with Sherlock at all, he’s going to make an appearance. You should probably prepare to be abducted in a long black car.”

Victor’s fingers skate over the surface of the table. “Should I? Oh. Although I’m afraid the colour would be rather lost on me.”

“Sorry. _A_ car. When it happens, I’d tell you not to be alarmed, but…let’s be honest. You should be. Mycroft Holmes is, to all intents and purposes, the British government. He lives for Queen and country and his little brother, but I’m not entirely certain that’s in the correct order.”

“Dear god,” Victor says. 

John takes just the tiniest amount of satisfaction in his discomfiture. “Do we have an understanding?” 

“Ye-es. I think so.”

“Let’s spell it out, though, shall we? Break his heart, and I’ll break you.”

Victor sits very still. Then he sighs. “Understood. And allow me to assure you that my intentions are, in a strictly modern sense, completely honourable.”

“Good.”

His mouth is twitching a little at the corners. “Although, I have to tell you that your interrogation was terribly amusing. Intimidating, but funny, nonetheless. Anyone would think you were his father.”

“No one ever thinks that,” John says. He pushes back his chair. “I’m going upstairs.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had written a good twelve pages soon after (or during) chapter 11. I was going to submit them, and then…I didn’t. I’m glad of that.
> 
> I went off to Germany for nineteen days, and had a glorious time visiting the incomparable WhenISayFriend. Thoughts of this story were largely overshadowed by brilliant conversation, Roman ruins—Germany: it’s fantastic! Fortresses. _Bronze colanders._ Military parade masks that now will haunt my dreams—and brainstorms regarding Series Three fixits and expansions.
> 
> Then I came home with heavy bags, an unprecedented tan, an awkwardly large tiger figurine, and the conviction that I’d been going about this chapter all wrong. 
> 
> I scrapped an awful lot of it, and started again. Scrapped that, and had another go. Did some drinking, and let Dionysos take a stab it. This, predictably, resulted in sentimental rubbish and overwrought metaphor. Took most of that out. Stayed up too late, repeatedly. Felt simultaneously inspired and intimidated by new comments from my readers. Intimidated in that I want to make this as good as it possibly can be, in exchange for your kind and unflagging support. Inspired because a writer is nothing without readers.
> 
> Here it is. I hope you like it. 
> 
> To be continued…


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock knows how this goes, because it’s always the same. Air burning in his lungs, but he has to keep it all in as long as he can. Forty seconds at the outside, because he didn’t make the most of the time he had before he was thrown under, and he’d taken up smoking again. _Idiot._ Forty seconds. Starting when? He’s lost count, and time has gone slow—adrenaline, panic. _Hold it, hold it in. Conserve oxygen. Use your brain. You were there, and John was—he’s just—Stay down, stay down and you’ll find him—_

 _Sherlock,_ Mycroft says. He’s perched on a tall kitchen stool, which means he’s only in Sherlock’s head and can safely be ignored. Unfortunately, he keeps talking despite this. _You know what water does to bullets, but explosives are a different proposition. Not very realistic, is it, baby brother? You’d be in no position to count anything. But by all means, continue if it helps._

 _Shut up! I have to—_ But there’s a dark shape spinning through the water. It could be a body. It could be John. Sherlock reaches out, and misjudges the distance. _Parallax. He tries_ again, and this time he connects, holds on. Only his fingers shouldn’t be clawing at something that feels like slippery silk. Dry. It’s dry. It shouldn’t be.

Mycroft is back. He’s shaking his head. _If I am still here, and the details are wrong, that suggests you ought to breathe. Do it._

Sherlock gasps, against his will. It doesn’t, strangely, hurt at all.

It’s only air. Crisp and cold. Sherlock takes another breath. He recognises unscented laundry detergent—it does have a scent, no matter what they claim—and something else. Sweat? Cedar? Chlorine, but surely that’s only a lingering artefact of the dream.

A dream, and Mycroft was right about that. It hadn’t been very realistic. Why, then, is he still clutching at something that feels like a sleeve? Like an arm. It’s warm. It twists beneath his fingers.

Sherlock opens his eyes. Ceiling. Grey light. Morning, but early. _Arm._ He turns his head, and looks down at a familiar crumpled blue silk sleeve, at his own fingers, creasing the fabric, pressing too hard. The sleeve is (technically) his. The arm inside it is not. He lets go.

“Good. You’re awake,” Victor Trevor says, rubbing ruefully at his wrist. “Were you dreaming? That was becoming alarming.”

Alarming is an accurate assessment. Sherlock heaves himself up the headboard with an irritated huff. “Why must people always steal my dressing gown?”

“People?” Victor repeats. “What people?”

“The Woman. Now you. It’s ridiculous.”

“That’s only two people,” Victor points out. “Who’s the woman?”

“Not important. Why are you wearing it?”

“It seemed preferable to wandering naked through your flat.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Penelope. But that was hours ago.” Victor yawns expansively, and adds, “If you’re honestly that bothered, I’ll take it off.”

Sherlock doesn’t dignify this with a response. Instead, he scowls and scrapes his fingers through his own tangled hair. Only a shower will sort it out now. If Victor leaves quickly, he’ll have time for a good lengthy one after he sees to the wreckage in the living room.

After a moment, Victor says, “Well. This _is_ awkward.”

“Is it.” Of course, Sherlock’s forgetting about the rug. That’s bound to take at least fifteen minutes. Possibly longer. No. Definitely longer.

Victor’s foot connects, just briefly, with Sherlock’s shin. “I’d considered not being here when you woke up, you know.”

“You could have followed that impulse.”

“How? I think that would have been difficult to orchestrate, don’t you?”

But not impossible. Sherlock would lay odds that Victor has already plotted a tidily accurate map of 221B in his mind. “You’d have managed, had you really wanted to. Surely this is hardly the first time you’ve had to navigate a strange flat without the benefit of trousers.”

Victor laughs at this. “True. What of it? I’m nearly forty. I’m human. So, no. It is not. The point is, I decided not to. Was that a mistake?”

Sherlock studies him. “Perhaps,” he says. Victor looks entirely too solid in this light. The warmth of his arm—or more than that, but there’s no need to dwell—is a tactile echo of sorts. It’s disquieting, now that the compulsion to touch him has gone.

“I knew it was bound to be strange,” Victor says, after a long silence. “And now it is.” His fingers pluck restlessly at his crumpled sleeve (Sherlock’s sleeve), until he catches himself at it and curls them into his palms. “I suppose your reaction to my presence was my first clue. That was rather violent.”

“And it was nothing to do with you.”

“I know. You were dreaming. But you very nearly ground my bones to powder. What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing I’m inclined to discuss. Or had you imagined something else?” he continues, drily. “You in my dressing gown, me telling you about my dreams?”

“No.” Victor sighs. “I imagined nothing. But this has been a roundabout course, beset with hairpin turns. First you were curt and cryptic. Then you were seductive in a domineering sort of way, followed by an odd bout of philosophy and some strangely…hypnogogic sex. You slept for hours—I didn’t, incidentally—and then you tried to kill me in your sleep. Now you’re being…I don’t know what you’re being.”

“Myself,” Sherlock says. “And if you don’t like it, I’m sure you know exactly where to find the door.”

“Yes. I do. But I’m not going to let you off so lightly as that. I’m not twenty years old, Sherlock. Not inexperienced, not desperately in love, not shattered because the first person who ever truly touched me woke up in my bed and bolted with my _dog_ rather than face what we had done. Or did you forget that?”

 _He lied,_ Sherlock thinks, because he remembers something different. _Or he’s lying now._ It occurs to him that he never did definitively learn Victor’s tells; the little physical tics that accompany a lie. Victor’s eyes are nearly translucent in this light, wide and still. “If that mattered so very much, you never mentioned it.”

“There were a great many things I never mentioned, and some I never will. I suspect we have that in common.”

“But now you have mentioned it. Why? Martyrdom is falling out of fashion, Victor. What, precisely, was your point? I thought we weren’t doing apologies.”

“Listen, and I’ll tell you. My _point_ is that I no longer have unrealistic expectations regarding you, or indeed, anyone else. I do, however, have certain standards. When I spend the night with someone, I do not expect him to treat me like an intruder in the morning. You certainly didn’t seem to mind my company last night, and I can’t fathom why anything should have changed while you were sleeping. If this is some bizarre form of remorse…I suppose I can’t help you there. _I_ don’t regret what we did. Do you?”

“I don’t do this at all,” Sherlock says. “Regret doesn’t enter into it.”

“Maybe you don’t, but I assure you that you _did_. I was there. It wasn’t half bad.” Victor’s mouth twists in a wry smile. “I suspect that if you _did_ do that sort of thing, I’d be inclined to ask you whether you’d consider doing it again. Or variations thereupon. I can think of several; some more interesting than others. Of course, you’d have to do something. Or I would. Make of that what you will.” He slides his fingers over the soft blue silk framing his throat and says, “It’s high time I returned this. You’re notoriously quick-witted, Sherlock. I suggest you use the next few seconds to determine how quickly you intend to help me find my clothes.”

* * *

Now Victor is gone and Sherlock’s hands smell of vinegar and wool. He should do something about that. Or—Instead, he surveys the living room. Moves the coffee table. Moves it another centimetre. Stands back, and it’s still wrong.

It isn’t. It is. He doesn’t know.

It’s nearly ten o’clock now. What time had John returned last night?

 _I talked to John,_ Victor had said casually, buttoning himself into his camel-coloured coat. _Last night while you were sleeping._

_Why?_

_I could hardly avoid it. He was standing outside your door. Does he do that often?_

_No._

_Ah. He seemed agitated._

_He spent an evening discussing war atrocities._

_In a pub? He reeked of beer._

_Yes._

_Strange venue. Did it pertain to a case?_

_Are you going, or are we playing twenty questions?_

_In a moment. You’re awfully eager to be rid of me, now._

_Does that offend you? Was I supposed to offer you breakfast?_

Victor had smiled at this. _God, no. That would be peculiar._

_I’m glad we’re agreed. Going?_

_In a moment,_ Victor said again. He held out his hand. Sherlock didn’t accept it.

_Right. You're doing it again. What was it? John? Should I not have mentioned him? Or spoken to him?_

Sherlock said nothing.

 _Ah,_ Victor sighed. _You didn’t want him to know. I wonder why. Surely he’s not judgemental. He lives with you._

Sherlock leaves the table where it is, and sits down with his laptop to compose a brief message. His cursor hovers over the ridiculous paper aeroplane icon for far too long. _No. First impulse._ He sends it, savagely, into the aether.

Then he listens, for a few long seconds, to the silence in the flat. He has, perhaps, an hour to shower, shave, and decide whether he wants to be present when John comes down for breakfast.

* * *

Mycroft is indulging in a rare butter croissant when his personal assistant pops her well-coifed head in at the door of his office.

“Anthea,” he says, dusting the flakes of pastry into one hand before carefully disposing of them in his wastepaper basket. “I have an errand for you, if you would be so kind.”

She smiles, and approaches his desk on ridiculously high heels. “Certainly, sir. I see your early meeting went well.”

“Obstacles are merely opportunity. There’s been a change of plan.”

Anthea raises one elegant dark eyebrow at this. “A good one, by the look of it.”

“Goodness is relative in this instance,” Mycroft says. “Our current project has some new requirements. It shouldn’t be very difficult.” He hands her a small, handwritten list of items.

She smirks at the contents. “Shopping, I see. Feeling nostalgic, sir?”

“Pragmatic, if anything. Our new player will need access to the information, and Cassandra is likely to find this format less…intimidating.”

She nods. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Get someone to hoover out the car before three o’clock. Thoroughly.”

“I will.” Anthea reaches into her handbag and withdraws a small white bottle. “You’ll need these, sir. Your eyes are a bit red.”

“There wasn’t time for a pill,” Mycroft says, accepting the eye drops. “I wasn't aware you carried them. I appreciate your attention to detail.”

“Coincidence, but my pleasure.” She stops. “We’ll need another name, now, won’t we?”

“Oh, let’s maintain the Hellenic theme,” Mycroft says. “The solution should be obvious.”

“Another prophet,” she suggests, after a brief pause. “From Sophocles, or is that taking this too far? Because I’m assuming you’ve just done something ridiculous. Tiresias?”

Ah, Anthea. Talented, loyal, and sometimes gloriously perceptive. “Very good,” he tells her. “You are a testament to British education.”

“And you, sir, have a twisted sense of humour.”

She clicks away down the hall, and Mycroft gazes down at his empty desk. He suppresses the irrational urge to send out for another pastry. Indulgence has a tendency to lead to excess.

* * *

John’s mobile chirps, and he groans. He turns his face into his pillow, and is abruptly disgusted by the echo of his own breath against the cotton fabric. _The wages of sin,_ he thinks. _I should have cleaned my teeth before bed. Or, I don’t know, actually undressed. God._

 _Should have, should have._ His head feels as if it’s being ground between two stones. The light is stabbing at his eyes.

He reaches for his phone, and there’s a message from Marie:

**You know that feeling that you’ve had too much to drink and told someone too much about yourself?**

_Unfortuantely, yes._

**It’s been a long time. Also, I feel like hell.**

_So do I. Next time, let’s meet someehere else._

**What does happen next?**

John hesitates. _I don’t know yet,_ he types, slowly because he really should correct his numerous typos. _But I’ll tell you when I do._

There’s a lengthy pause, and then new text appears. **Thanks. I’m going to have a third coffee and try not to place a serial kleptomaniac in a retail position.**

 _Good idea,_ John says, marvelling at her ability to type coherently. Or maybe her predictive texting function is simply better than his. _I’ll keep in touch._

He rolls out of bed, swaying slightly as the change in position makes spots appear in front of his eyes. Definitely not enough water before bed, although his bladder currently begs to differ.

Gingerly, he makes his way down the hall and endures a painfully hot shower, tentative shave, and—with great trepidation—the application of toothpaste. Necessary, but the foam makes him gag. No. The hangover makes him gag; the foam merely exacerbates the problem.

As he stands, heaving, over the sink, the thought he’d been avoiding—well, one of them, let’s be honest—comes back to haunt him. _Sherlock. No, Victor._

Oh god. He’d…said some things. To Victor. He’d meant them, and he still does, but he shouldn’t have been quite so forceful. He’d had a bit of a shock, and he was drunk. Still, he’d essentially threatened the man with bodily harm. Not one of his finer moments. He heaves again, and this time, tastes bile.

“Oh, brilliant,” he mutters, because he’d just finished his teeth. He allows further waves of nausea to sweep over him, forehead pressed against the cold glass of the steam-fogged mirror. _You are not your sister,_ he reminds himself. This is not the beginning of a spiralling descent into alcoholic shame. It’s just a bad hangover and a bit of lingering embarrassment. He’s had worse.

When he ventures into the living room, he finds Sherlock sitting in his chair. Not slouched, not sprawling. He is taut and poised, one leg crossed over the other at a precise, uncomfortable angle, his hands folded together over one knee. He is immaculately turned out; crisp and forbidding in a black suit and severe white shirt. His eyes are closed, but they snap open on John’s approach.

John doesn’t flinch. He merely looks back at him, and then nods. He cannot help but notice that the room is unusually tidy, and the rug shows no signs of the previous night’s disaster. Victor is, quite clearly, long gone.

Sherlock’s pale eyes travel over him, and then he lifts an eyebrow. “Hangover, John?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” Sherlock doesn’t blink. He just stares.

John stares back. He wonders what, if anything, he ought to say. “We talked. And we drank. Too much, but it seemed to help at the time.”

Sherlock blinks. This was not, apparently, what he’d been expecting. His hands relax. “Good. That’s…good.”

“Yes. Or no. It wasn’t, actually. Good, I mean. Hence the drinking. If Mycroft wants to make a case for something, the material’s all there.”

“You should tell him.”

“I’d rather tell you,” John says. “Although…at the moment, I think a cup of weak tea is in order. I feel a bit rough.”

Sherlock doesn’t have anything scathing to offer in return. He simply nods.

“Want one?”

“Please,” Sherlock says, after a long, torturous pause.

John fires up the kettle, wincing when bending over the tea canister makes his head throb. And…oh. His RAMC mug is clean and resting in the drying rack. The blue one has been neatly mended, and is sitting beside the toaster. The sight of it makes John feel oddly sad. Sherlock isn’t in the habit of mending things. Well. No need to call attention to it. He deliberately chooses another pair. Or not a pair—one is unrelieved black, and the other was a gift from Harry. It has a garish Tube map on it, and John generally avoids using it when he can.

He keeps that one for himself—possibly in penance—and hands the black one to Sherlock. He has not moved a hair from his previous position. John sinks into his own chair with a sigh. “So. Marie,” he begins.

Sherlock has been gazing down into his tea. His head snaps up. “Yes?”

John takes a sip from his own mug, and inwardly rejoices when his stomach appears to accept his offering. “She told me what they did. Broadly. And also what happened when Joe Richardson died. Which part do you want first?”

“Begin at the beginning,” Sherlock says. “And go on till you come to the end: then stop.”*

John is fairly certain he has just witnessed a quotation, which is bizarre, but he can’t identify the source. His brain isn’t cooperating. Still, he stumbles through a recap of the previous night’s conversation.

Sherlock doesn’t have much to say. Ordinarily, he’d be asking more questions. But now, he mostly listens.

John finishes his account with a weak “So I expect Mycroft will be wanting more specifics, but that’s what I’ve got.”

“Yes. Good.” Sherlock sets his mug on the table. “I really would prefer you speak to him yourself.”

“Why?”

“You did the work,” Sherlock says, reasonably.

John narrows his eyes. “You’re feuding again.”

 _“Again_ implies a stopping point.”

“You’d been getting on fairly well, I thought. What changed?”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

“Right. Fine. None of my business.” John scrubs his hands through his hair. “This would be easier if I knew where it was headed. And I still don’t know why I’ve been tapped to…to play inquisitor.”

“Because you’re you. I told you, I couldn’t have done it,” Sherlock says. “I lack the common touch.”

John frowns. “Word choice could be better, Sherlock.”

“Which word did you object to?”

“Common.” John finishes his tea, then, and that’s a mistake. Too much acid. He claps his hand over his mouth, and positively bolts for the kitchen.

He’s sick. Copiously, horribly, fantastically sick, and when he finally straightens up again, Sherlock is standing behind him.

He doesn’t say anything, at least, but he’s close enough that John can smell the soap he used that morning. Fortunately, it’s inoffensive. Just unusually strong, for some reason.

John splashes water over his face. Repeatedly. Then he shoves Sherlock out of the way and reaches for a cloth.

“You’re not,” Sherlock remarks, quite abruptly. “Common.”

John snorts at this. “Thanks.”

“I thought…that might be worth saying.”

John swabs at his face. He looks up, and Sherlock is looming over him. “Yes. Thank you. I know that wasn’t really what you meant. This wasn’t, actually, a response to what you said. If I vomited every time you said something slightly ill-advised, we’d be constantly awash in sick.”

Sherlock swallows. “And I’m sorry.”

John boggles at him. “You’re sorry,” he repeats.

“That you’re ill.”

“It’s just a hangover,” John says. “I’ve had them before. I expect I’ll have them again. Not very soon, I hope.”

“I shouldn’t think so. You’re not a heavy drinker. Habitually.”

“More than you. Less than Harry.” John shrugs. Then, stupidly, he glances over at the mended blue mug before he can stop himself.

Sherlock’s eyes follow his. Just a flick, and then they’re away, pointed somewhere just over John’s head.

It’s too late to pretend he hadn’t seen it. “That must have been a difficult repair,” John ventures quietly. “I’m impressed.”

“It was.”

John nods. “What did you use on the rug? Red wine is right up there with blood, when it comes to stains.”

“Acetic acid,” Sherlock tells the ceiling.

John would have called it vinegar. He’s not a chemist. “Well, it looks…good. Possibly better than before. I don’t think it’s had a proper seeing-to in years.”

Sherlock’s lips compress themselves into a thin line. He does not look down at John.

This is not going well, and John finds himself babbling. “What? It’s true. Don’t worry; I won’t let on to Mrs. Hudson that you know how to…clean things. I do reserve the right to remember that, though. Next time you do something awful to the bath—“

“You’ll what? Hold it over me?” Sherlock’s voice sounds strained. He’s looking directly at John now. “Why don’t you say what you’re thinking? Shall we skip past the helpful household hints and get stuck into the judgement?”

John takes a step back. “Judgement?”

“I believe that’s the term, yes.” Sherlock grinds his teeth together, hard enough to make them squeak and John wince. “Let’s hear it, then. What offended you the most? The property damage? That’s nothing new. You’re used to that. No. Just say it, then. Go on.”

John finds himself clenching his fists in response. “Say what? What, Sherlock, do you expect me to say?”

“Oh. You can’t, can you? Fine. By all means. What did you find most distressing? The rug? Or the unexpected presence of Victor Trevor in our flat?”

“What?”

“Victor Trevor. Don’t pretend you didn’t see him, or speak with him. He told me you had. How awkward for you. Did that make you uncomfortable?”

“I was concerned,” John says. “I came home, and it looked like—“

“Like what?” Sherlock is breathing hard now.

“I thought you’d…I thought there’d been a fight.”

“Oh, and that would have been better. Much less distressing all round. Less shocking.”

John’s head feels like it’s coming apart at the seams. He takes a deep breath. “No. It wasn’t…shocking. I mean, it was, but not…I didn’t—”

“Didn’t expect that. No. Why would you? And it must be a blow. Your sister is one thing, although you clearly dislike her for other reasons. Shared history. The drinking. Not her…proclivities, or so you tell yourself. Perhaps you even mean it. This, though? This is different. You won’t be able to look me in the eye now, will you? You’ll—“

“Sherlock,” John says. He _is_ looking him in the eye, but Sherlock is off on a rant. Nothing short of an explosion will stop him now.

“You’ll look at me, and you’ll see him. You’ll see me, but in a different light. You’ll try not to, but you will. It’s inevitable. Your discomfort will manifest in small ways, at first. You’ll flinch when I stand too close to you. You’ll sit at the furthest end of the sofa, and one day, you’ll decide it’s all too much and pack your—“

“Sherlock!” John shouts. “Stop. Talking. Now.”

Sherlock freezes, with his mouth half-open.

“Thank you! For what it’s worth, I don’t give a blue blazing _fuck_ who you sleep with. I don’t!” John reaches out and catches Sherlock’s hands at the wrist, largely to stop them hovering. It’s making him dizzy. “Men. Women. The London fucking _bridge._ I don’t care.”

Sherlock blinks at him. _“Paraphilia?_ God, no.”

“Good. I’ll admit, I do find that statement reassuring.” John says, and he smirks. “I suppose Sally Donovan would be disappointed, but you don’t particularly care for her opinion. Or her entry in the betting pool. Actually,” he corrects himself, “I’m pretty sure she was hoping for necrophilia.”

“Assuming she can spell the word at all.”

“Or I’m joking, because…well. Half of them seem to think we’re shagging, and that’s really annoying at the best of times. I’m afraid I let that get to me, but that’s nothing to do with you.” John squeezes Sherlock’s wrists and lets them go. “Honestly. It’s fine. So you’re…gay. You’re my best friend. That doesn’t change. It’s fine.”

“Oh.”

John clears his throat. “It was just surprising, that’s all. You said you didn’t…I mean, not anyone, at all. Married to your work, and all that.”

Sherlock says, “That wasn’t a lie.”

“Right. Okay. None of my business,” John says, cautiously, “but when was the last time you…”

“Thirteen years ago. More or less. I’d deleted it.”

Thirteen years. _When he was a junkie_ , John thinks, and he cringes.

Sherlock doesn’t miss this. “No. I deleted the experience because it was pointless. It usually is.”

 _Usually_ would sound more convincing coming from a man who hadn’t been celibate for thirteen years, but John lets that slide. “So Victor’s different.”

Sherlock shrugs. His posture is gradually becoming more relaxed. “Apparently.”

“Well. Good for you, then.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Really? I do know when you’re being insincere, John. It’s written all over your face.”

John sighs. “Yeah, you probably do. Fine. I don’t know him at all, really, but…something about him rubs me the wrong way.” Now that he’s past his embarrassment over their late-night confrontation, the feeling is still there. “Maybe I’ll change my mind. If you—clearly you see something in him. He’s not stupid, which surely helps. And I’m no judge, but he’s…physically attractive, I suppose. I just…I’m just not sure I like him very much.”

“I’m not entirely sure I do, either,” Sherlock confesses.

“Oh.” John thinks he ought to offer some form of…advice? Commiseration? _Oh god. I’m talking to Sherlock about ill-advised flings with an ex. Why is this happening? Make it stop._

“He’s, ah…” Sherlock stops. “Yes. Well.”

“Good in bed?” John supplies. “Sorry. I’m not laughing. Welcome to one of the most fundamental human mistakes. If it was one. Maybe it’s not. How is he on crime? If it isn’t a problem, remind him that I’m your blogger. I’ve earned that title, thank you very much.”

“You have,” Sherlock says in a tone that sounds suspiciously like amusement. “And that was a…very generous speech. Mind you, I have just told him not to bother coming back.”

John laughs, and then stops himself. “Sorry. I hope he didn’t take that too badly.”

“No idea. I sent him an email.”

“I should tell you that that’s wrong, but…I’m not going to, right now,” John says. “I think I’ll have a nice glass of water and a sit down, instead.”

They’ve been lounging in the living room for a good half hour—Sherlock muttering imprecations at the television, and John trying not to move his own head unnecessarily—when Sherlock’s mobile emits a clanking sound. At least it’s not a moan.

John yawns and says, “I hope that’s a murder that doesn’t involve any running.”

“No,” Sherlock says, abstractedly. “Not a murder.”

“If it’s your brother, you have two options: pretend we’ve both died, or tell him I’ll speak with him tomorrow.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. John raises his head enough to see him staring at the screen in something that resembles shock.

“What is it?” John asks. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

Sherlock starts. “What? No.” He switches the phone off and slides it into his jacket pocket. “I’m going out.”

* * *

“Charles,” Mycroft says jovially, over the distant buzz of the electronic door release. “How _are_ you?”

The prisoner, who had approached the table in sullen silence, gives him a look of pure disbelief. His eyes are bloodshot, the skin beneath them grey and wrinkled like crepe. “Fantastic,” he grinds out at last, once Mycroft’s relentlessly sunny expression has worn him down.

Mycroft folds his hands together over his umbrella. “Oh dear. I think we both know _that’s_ a lie. You haven’t slept for 48 hours. For a man in your condition, that should be tremendously gruelling.”

“Fuck you,” Milverton says, succinctly.

Mycroft smiles with only the outermost corners of his mouth. “We’ll overlook that remark, owing to your trying circumstances. Let's see if we can't improve them. I have come to offer you a respite from all this. There are conditions, of course, but nothing you ought to find impossible. Have I got your attention? I see that I have. Good. In a few days’ time, a slight bureaucratic irregularity will emerge. Something minor, to do with your arrest. An uncrossed T, an undotted I. It’s shocking how easily these things can occur."

"Why would you do that?"

"I want something."

"What?"

"Patience. We'll get to that in due time. The point is, you will find yourself released. Conditionally; I can't just have you doing whatever you please."

Milverton looks wary. “What conditions?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to return to your home. There was a slight mishap owing to the pipes expanding when the heating bill went unpaid. But I am prepared to offer you the temporary use of a reasonably good hotel room.”

“Where I’ll be kept like a wasp under a glass, is that it?”

“Such a powerful use of metaphor,” Mycroft says. “You ought to consider becoming a writer.” He strokes the curved, hard wood beneath his fingers, and continues. “You’re quite right to be suspicious. You will be under guard. But only from a distance. Your room will be entirely private. Have I mentioned the amenities? I believe it contains an extremely comfortable bed, and ensuite bathroom. With a rather lovely bath. I don’t have the specifications on hand, but it’s almost indecently large.”

“Again, why?” The man’s expression is a marvel. Distrust, hope, and defiance all blended together. "What are you going to do to me?"

Mycroft thinks, as he had done earlier but in different circumstances, _This is really too simple._ “Nothing at all. I merely require your assistance.”

“I’ve already told you everything I know,” Milverton says. “And I’m not a complete idiot. Why the pretence? The release that isn't one. What's going to happen in that hotel room?”

“The hotel room is a convenience," Mycroft corrects him. "Temporary lodging, because I want you to have a few conversations with someone else. And you really can’t do that here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Alice in Wonderland,_ Lewis Carroll. 
> 
> This is a bit rough, I'm afraid, but I really had to get them out of bed before the new year. There might be some minor changes over the next few days. 
> 
> This has been a ridiculous month. I had approximately 90% of this chapter written, and then life conspired not to let me finish. At any rate, I hope it's not too awful. Or unformatted, because AO3 ate mine, and I'm not sure I caught it all yet.
> 
> Thank you, as ever, for reading on.
> 
> And, oh:
> 
>  
> 
> **Meretricious, Dear Reader, and a happy new year!**


	14. Chapter 14

The house is dark, his approach lit only by distant street lights and dimming solar-powered glass lanterns studded throughout the low hedges lining the long stone walk to the steps. Sherlock pockets his phone when the brass numbers arrayed unevenly beside the heavy, wooden door come into view: _1875._

The knocker is brass, a slender Art Nouveau reproduction piece. A recent addition. He can just make out the outline where its blockier predecessor had left its imprint in the previous layer of paint. A quick glance down at the letterbox reveals a peculiar bronze oblong flap suggesting a stylised face with slanting eyes and a broad, fanged mouth. _Lettres._ French? No, Belgian, and also recently installed, although this is a genuine antique.

He examines the dark, reflective surface of the window to the right. It’s not particularly clean, but it is modern double glazing, and shrouded by an opaque curtain. And—he can stand here, deducing the usual residents further (artists—or they’d like to be considered so, mid-thirties, no children), or he could simply knock and face the current occupant.

It’s ridiculous not to. Stupid, to stand here assessing the hardware as if he’s likely to change his mind. He should knock, but instead he tries the knob. It turns in his gloved hand, not at all smoothly, but it does. Not locked, then.

The hinges creak, much as he expects them to, but what he does not expect is the sound that follows, percussive and harsh. It makes adrenaline spike through his veins.

The dog. He always did forget about the dog.

She appears soon afterwards, a pale shape rushing out of the shadows, stopping just short of the threshold and panting, one eye trained on him, the other rolling back towards the interior of the house.

“Good beginning,” Sherlock remarks, peering past her into the shadows. “Not much follow-through.”

There’s the sound of a laugh, and then Victor’s voice, much nearer than Sherlock had expected, says “That’s a bit…premature. Or were you addressing the dog?”

“The dog spoke first.”

Victor’s face emerges in pieces, a faint sketched shape floating in the darkness. “Yes. I suspect she mistook you for a burglar.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not at all,” Victor says, easily. There’s a faint click, and light abruptly floods the entryway.

Sherlock blinks against it. He’d made the mistake of looking at the bulb, which is harsh and unshaded. After a second, the shape of Victor resolves itself into meaning. He is wearing a heavy red and gold brocade dressing gown over black silk pyjamas, and clutching a massive fire iron in his left hand. “What were you going to do with _that?”_

“Not much.” He shrugs. “I was reasonably certain I wouldn’t need it.”

“You could have ensured that by bolting the door. Why didn’t you?”

Victor’s feet are bare and stark white against the flooring; wood stained so dark it might be ebony. His cheeks are faintly flushed, his eyes glassy in this light. “You’re letting the cold in,” he says, evading the question. “Come in, if you’re going to.”

Sherlock nudges Penelope aside with one foot and crosses the threshold. It’s a long narrow hallway, with crimson-painted walls and a series of ormolu-framed mirrors. He stops, and Victor reaches past him to draw the door closed.

“Could you—sorry,” Victor says, extending the poker to him, brass handle outwards. “I need both hands.”

Sherlock accepts it, and watches as Victor engages the deadbolt with deft fingers. “What makes you think I’m staying?”

“Consider it a form of optimism. You didn’t answer my text.”

He turns, and Sherlock returns the poker to him. “No.”

“Well, then. Follow me.”

Sherlock does, repeatedly making fleeting contact with his own distorted reflection along the way: dark scrawl of hair, staring eyes in a stark white face, nose tinged pink with cold. Victor stops abruptly before the low archway leading into the first room. It’s obscured by a heavy Kashmir shawl in faded blue and tarnished gold. “You’ll have to tell me,” Victor says.

“Tell you what?” Sherlock is looking down at Victor’s hands, one still wrapped about the poker, the other buried in Penelope’s lush fur.

She isn’t in harness. He should have noticed that. Why didn’t he?

“What it’s like.”

“What _what_ is like?” Sherlock asks. _What what?_   Ridiculous. He grinds his teeth.

“The house,” Victor clarifies. “Because it’s…well. You’ll see.” He pushes through the fabric barrier and Sherlock follows close behind him, suppressing a shudder at the brush of dusty cloth against his face. Beyond, it is dark, but Victor’s hand slides whispering against the wall.

When the lights come up, Sherlock exhales.

Victor laughs. “Oh, this _will_ be good.”

“It’s, ah—“ Sherlock blinks, his brain skittering over a sudden wealth of information, all of it discordant, none of it expected. Above: a pressed tin ceiling stamped with rococo swirls. Below: alternating layers of Persian rug, sheepskin, and something that Sherlock’s mind stumbles over but quickly identifies as a reindeer pelt. The walls are bracketed in dark teak carvings and painted an odd eggshell blue. Jewelled glass Moroccan lamps hang suspended at the corners from ornate metal fixtures. Below them—

A table, in a technical sense. The woman’s body—a mannequin, long limbs impossibly folded—is painted to resemble the Egyptian sky goddess (Nut?): midnight blue, golden stars crawling over her flanks and spine. She supports a heavy sheet of glass, balanced at the points of shoulders and pelvis. “That’s wrong.”

Victor takes this remark as an aesthetic judgment. “So very. Or so I’ve been told.” He steps past Sherlock to return the poker to its stand. The fire screen is adorned with an enamelled peacock. The mantelpiece is heavy mahogany. Its surface is bare, an oddity in a room so cluttered with artefacts.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker away from the table (wrong!) past a pearwood lute (unplayed), a red glass hookah (signs of use, not recent), and a Balinese barong mask with a long, curling leather tongue. He glances over at Victor, who is settling himself onto a low velvet-covered divan opposite the Egyptian goddess. Penelope is already burrowing into a spotted sheepskin at his feet. _Jacob. Two to six horns._

“I thought you’d have more to say.”

“It suits you,” Sherlock says, bluntly.

Victor laughs. “Hardly. It’s much too cold for comfort.”

It is. Sherlock can see his breath. That’s also wrong.

He looks down at his own gloved hand, fingers still twisted through the brass knocker. Oh.

He lets it fall.

* * *

John is in the kitchen, cooking his dinner. He’s left it later than he should have, and now the persistent ache in his head has taken on a condemnatory twinge. But no, he’s sliced the onion; he’s committed now. He slides the ragged pieces of it out into the shimmering oil.

Then he glances down at the anonymous pink whorls of beef mince waiting in a plastic tray by the sink. Almost certainly beef. _How badly do you want to know?_   Sherlock would say, if he were here. He’d met the Tesco horse meat scandal with typical derision.

 _Not that badly,_ John would say, before Sherlock had time to reach for a microscopic slide or a suspicious unmarked flask.

 _It’s ridiculous to assign a moral value to meat,_ Sherlock said, the last time it came up. _One ungulate herbivore is much like any other. The only difference is a sentimental one._

John had had at least one militantly vegetarian girlfriend who would have agreed, but from a different angle. Sherlock hadn’t helped with that one. _You’ve killed humans,_ he said. _What’s Janet-Jennifer-Julia’s stance on that?_

He never did find out, because his relationship with Genevieve only lasted two days beyond his discussion with Sherlock. It was nothing to do with Afghanistan, leather shoes, steak or even Sherlock—she’d simply met someone else. John didn’t protest. What was the point?

Now he tips the meat out into the pan and breaks up the pieces as they sear. It smells fantastic. He does, generally, enjoy cooking. It’s not a skill he’d had much opportunity to indulge in during his army years, but he’s competent when he tries. It’s relaxing.

About a year ago, Mrs. Hudson had suggested he try an evening cookery course. _You never know who you might meet,_ she said. _I have my dancing. I’ve met any number of nice gentlemen that way, but of course, that’s not really your thing, is it, dear?_

The dancing, or the gentlemen? He’d swallowed his reflexive protest and said, _Yeah. No._

John had never done anything with her suggestion, but now he wonders whether he should. He might be able to squeeze in a few sessions of something. Then he flashes on a vision of Sherlock bursting into a kitchen full of earnestly cheerful pensioners and (possibly sexy) divorcees brandishing chef knives and— _oh god, no._ It’s the stuff of reality television, and unlikely to lead to a date with anyone.

Only he has been thinking about dating. He keeps thinking about dating. He can’t, quite remember how that used to work. For years, John had tried it on with a wide variety of women, guided by the vague philosophy of It Never Hurts To Try. To some extent, it had even worked. Sarah, for example, had been lovely. Funny, clever, and spontaneous. Her sense of adventure hadn’t quite extended to kidnapping, though. Also, John was her employee, and not a very reliable one.

Right, and then there’s Marie, who John is decidedly _not_ dating, and has been trying not to think about all day. Trying and failing. She’s attractive, in a stealthy sort of way, she’s intelligent, she’s got an odd sense of humour, and she might, just possibly might, be interested in John. Had he imagined that?

It doesn’t matter. It is never going to matter. _She’s Mycroft’s secret witness, for fuck’s sake._ That’s what John should be thinking about: not her eyes, not her voice, not the bits of leg he hasn’t actually seen yet, not her fascinatingly non-existent adventures.

The meat is going to burn if John doesn’t give it another scrape. He does. But he’s alone, and no one can judge him for his thoughts, because Sherlock isn’t here.

No, Sherlock isn’t here, and John’s hangover has finally receded enough that he can process what that means. _I’m going out,_ Sherlock had said, but with the same air of distraction, of rigid blankness, that he’d employed immediately after Victor’s initial visit to 221B. Only John hadn’t fully noticed this until he’d gone.

What else had John missed? He replays the morning’s conversation, as best he can, and there was something wrong, there, too. Well, of course there was. The whole thing was profoundly unsettling. Sherlock had worked himself into a state of terror and rage and John had had no choice but to try to snap him out of it. He’d shouted back, which wasn’t, strictly, good, but seemed to do the trick. It usually does.

The rest of it, though, that was surreal in a different way. More so now that he’s remembering it. John had reacted to what Sherlock said, but he hadn’t really listened. He’d said the sort of things he’d say to anyone in Sherlock’s position, the sort of things someone should have said to Harry years ago. But Sherlock isn’t Harry. He isn’t other people. He’s a man who had deliberately deleted his own sexual history. And beyond that, more importantly, he’d deleted his first friend.

 _That wasn’t a lie… I’m not entirely sure I like him, either,_ Sherlock had said. And then he’d started to say something after that, but John had filled his halting silence with another cheap joke. What would Sherlock have said, then, if he hadn’t intervened?

 _Nothing,_ John tells himself. _He was uncomfortable, and you’re being paranoid. Actually, you were equally uncomfortable. And still paranoid. Sherlock doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do._

John opens a tin of tomatoes and deliberately, calmly, considers Marie. That’s safer.

* * *

Sherlock is no longer on the door step, but his hands still feel cold. They shouldn’t; the ambient temperature is at least 21 degrees.

The door really had been locked this time, and the dog had barked for several minutes before there was a scrape of the latch from the other side. _Can I help you?_   Victor said, followed by an aggrieved _Oh god_ when he realised who was standing before him.

Victor didn’t precisely offer, but Sherlock followed him in. There was no mirrored passage; no hall of any kind. He’s standing with his back to the front door now, idly scanning the furnishings while Victor occupies himself with the dog across the room.

The house’s interior does not live up to the aspirations stated by its exterior. This particular room is largely empty, populated with ageing IKEA furniture in two different, only faintly complementary aesthetics. The walls are partially stripped of paint (a uniquely 1970s shade of yellow, and beneath that, traces of a sickly coral), and the hardwood floors are scarred and worn. Design catalogues are heaped in an untidy tower at one end of the battered sofa, attesting to the owners’ desire to renovate once they acquire sufficient funds. Sherlock finds this almost viscerally tedious. He can’t, however, decide whether he’s also feeling relieved.

Nothing here, including Victor, resembles the Byzantine landscape Sherlock’s mind had conjured up earlier. To some extent, he could blame the grotesquerie of the letter box for that mistake. Extrapolation from insufficient data, or a warning. _Something about Victor._ Sherlock’s lip curls at this, because if _that’s_ what his subconscious is trying to tell him, it could have saved itself the cab fare.

Just now, there’s nothing particularly decadent or sinister about Victor’s appearance. His wet hair drips unheeded over his face, while his fingers pluck distractedly at the soft white towel draped around his neck. His feet are bare—this much was accurate—and his faded, surprisingly prosaic cotton pyjamas are mismatched. He looks, in fact, like a man who was interrupted in mid-shower by a barking dog: guarded, embarrassed, and faintly resentful.

“There is a reason why people generally announce their visits in advance,” Victor says, nudging Penelope aside with one foot so he can tuck himself into a corner of the sofa. “I apologise for leaving you on the door step for so long, but I was in the bath.”

“I see that.”

“And I was _in_ the bath because I wasn’t expecting you. You never answered my message.”

“I hadn’t thought it required a verbal response,” Sherlock says. Surely his presence is an answer in itself.

“Your silence led me to assume you weren’t coming,” Victor continues. “Perhaps I should have sent you another text.”

“What might that have said? If you had.”

“I don’t know.” Victor pushes his hair away from his face, stripping the water away with his fingers. His nose appears too long for balance with his hair flattened down against his skull. “My day took an odd turn, and I—well. There’s not much point in a retraction now, is there?”

“Not much, no.”

“Mm. I could claim temporary insanity.”

“You really couldn’t. That was far too considered.”

Victor flushes at this. “No. I, ah, did…mean what I said.”

“Which included, among other things, this address. Yet you didn’t expect me. Interesting. What is the usual result?”

Victor blinks. “Of…?”

“That sort of message.”

“I’ve no idea,” Victor says. “I’m not…in the habit of saying such things. Certainly not in that format.”

“No doubt you exceeded Siri’s standard repertoire.”

“He wasn’t…fully conversant with all the terminology, no.”

Sherlock doesn’t mention the fact that he hadn’t been, either. Not quite. He is now. “Dictation. Correction, one must assume. Yes, very considered. Elaborate. Took quite some time, I imagine.” He had imagined. Perhaps that was the point. Imagining Victor saying those words aloud, slowly and precisely. Where had he said them? Here? Or somewhere else? _No, here._ Less chance of background noise. He’d been here, and he’d—

Victor is laughing now. “Where _was_ I?”

So Sherlock had said some of that aloud. Fine. “Here. You were here.”

“Was I?” Victor shrugs. “What if I’m not that bothered what strangers think of me? It could, just as easily, have been the Tube. Or a park. A cab, perhaps.”

“Oh, you are. And it wasn’t.”

“I think you’re stalling. Dwelling on irrelevant details. Clearly you read it. You don’t strike me as the sort of man who’d travel a few miles to say no in person when a simple text would suffice. That strongly suggests I’ve piqued your interest. Have I?”

Sherlock had covered more than a few miles that evening. He’d composed several very different messages, deleted them, and then walked on. He could have (should have) stopped at several points, turned back and ended the dialogue altogether.

But the ideal stopping point was already long past: that would have been Victor, retreating down the stairs at Baker Street the first time. How tidy that would have been: a brief conversation and no further contact of any kind. No, if stopping was the goal, Sherlock had failed quite spectacularly at that already. The first failure was indulging in memory. The second was planning a—what? Revenge? No. That was a flimsy rationalisation for his own behaviour from the start, neither logical nor true. Certainly no more so than any excuse for want has ever been.

Sherlock’s jaw aches, so he consciously relaxes it. His tongue darts out over his teeth, tasting copper. Apropos. That’s exactly what brought him here: a chemical whisper in his own blood. That’s all it is; it might as well be a sublimated craving for nicotine or caffeine or—

“Sherlock,” Victor says, sharply. “Your mind is a sublimely complicated structure, but its contents are not open to the public.”

Under the circumstances, that’s a relief. “I’m considering what you’d said. Six suggestions. Reciprocity implied.”

“Implied, but negotiable.” Victor’s hand comes up to push his hair away from his face. It’s beginning to curl again. “Would it help if I explain the spirit in which I composed that?”

“Please. The content made _that_ abundantly clear.”

“Clear, but unspeakable, apparently. In either sense of the word.” Victor frowns, and straightens his towel. “I don’t think it works at all in conversational form. You’re either absent or all edges. It occurred to me that, to some extent, this is how you’ve always been. Or to be more specific, how you respond to impulses or situations you find unnerving. Untidy emotions. Sex, in the abstract. Variables, I think, beyond your control. I might be over analysing that, but it’s a reasonable hypothesis. I hope I’m not offending you in saying it. So for that—or some other reason—you told me to go to hell. In fewer words than that, but there’s no need to dwell. You know, I think, what happens when people feel they have very little left to lose. That last dash in the wrong direction when the police are just arriving. I felt something very much like that. _Why not, then?_   I thought. _Why not write a response?_   And while I was at it, why not go all the way? Why not indulge in every sordid detail. Things we have done. Things I’ve imagined we could. If there were time. If you wanted to.” He stops. “I said a great deal, but I didn’t actually ask you that. So now I am. What do you want?”

Sherlock is significantly closer to Victor now. That’s the problem with standing; he orbits. Now Sherlock looks at him as if he’d been dared to do so: takes in the hard planes of Victor’s face, the softer curve of his mouth, the drops of water glistening where they lie low in the hollow of his throat. Beneath that, there’s faded blue cotton, streaked dark by water. Mother of pearl buttons, irregular and worn. The sodden white towel falls over his shoulders to break over long lines of thigh, where muted green and grey stripes are interrupted by the careless open sprawl of Victor’s hands. The pad of his left index finger is slightly lacerated, in crossed, broken lines. _Broken glass,_ Sherlock thinks, reflexively stepping over the dog. _A few hours ago._

Victor’s breath is slow, his posture relaxed. He sits, unmoving, smelling strongly of a soap that Sherlock could identify, if only his brain wasn’t teeming with fragmented and pointless observations of a very different sort. Like the fact that Victor’s lips are now slightly parted; distractingly evocative of Item Four, because Sherlock _had_ considered his message, every nuance of it, over hours. Hours, and still he persists in mentally coding each…act by the sequence in which it was described. Victor hadn’t been vulgar, but he _had_ been direct, in a way he never had been at university. Things had simply happened, then: notably, Items One through Five. There had been very little discussion of any of it in those days; only impulse.

Sherlock had been playing a part the night before, when he’d pinned Victor’s wrists above his head, or that was his excuse when he began it. He could, very possibly, claim that some of his subsequent actions were required for verisimilitude. Under _very_ specific circumstances, Item One—the French term marginally better than the English one, but still achingly stupid—could be construed as non-committal. Those circumstances did not apply. Even if they had, by Item Two (and he can’t think of a decent word for that one in any language—Victor hadn’t given it a name), he’d given up all pretence to a higher motive. Sherlock had, quite simply, done it all because he wanted to.

_What do you want?_

Sherlock says, “Everything.”

* * *

John is feeling restless after dinner. He should take advantage of the silence in the flat to do some reading. He could sit back in his chair and plunge into a trashy novel, because Sherlock isn’t there to offer unwanted spoilers or remark upon John’s visible reactions to what he’s reading. He could, but it occurs to him that he doesn’t really want to. John tries the television, and that’s not very interesting, either. Reality programmes never seem to focus on the things he actually wants to see, and he’s already had it up to here with Hitler. The news is so desperately uninteresting, he feels shame when he catches himself hoping for a bombing or a nice old-fashioned serial killing.

So there’s the internet, and that isn’t much better. John had re-enabled comments on his blog some time ago, and although he hasn’t added much content in recent days—just a quick synopsis of the locked-cottage mystery—there are bound to be new messages by now. Friends. Fans. Socially awkward internet stalkers. Spam. The thing is, he really doesn’t feel up to wading into all of that. So he gives all forms of social media a broad berth and flits through websites he usually enjoys, only to find that tonight, he really doesn’t. He briefly—very briefly!—considers a session with the Naked Ladies of the Internet, but he rejects that, too.

In the end, John finds himself drawn to the largely-untouched boxes of books that have taken over much of the floor beside the front window: Sebastian Moran’s books. He doesn’t twist the flaps free thinking he’ll come to any new insights regarding the Bangalore Pioneers. The collection is unlikely to tell him anything about them that Marie hadn’t covered in their conversation, surely. It’s morbid curiosity, more than anything. What does a hired gun with a dark past read?

 _What doesn’t he read, more like._ First editions of poetry are interspersed with dog-eared National Geographics. Either Sebastian Moran wasn’t much bothered by order—which is at odds with John’s own memories of the man—or he had developed his own, somewhat Sherlockian filing system. Something associative?

 _Or,_ John thinks, flipping idly through a startlingly lovely volume of Andean nature photography, _he had to pack his things in a hurry._

John is beginning to hallucinate a possible pattern in the National Geographic issues when he hears a knock at the door. He looks at his watch, and it’s half-past nine. Mrs. Hudson would have yoo-hooed rather than knocked, so John dusts his hands off against his thighs, and gets to his feet. His knees are feeling stiff, but he’d been on them for quite some time. It’s thinning cartilage, that’s all. Nothing to do with age.

“Oh,” he says, when the door reveals the elder Holmes brother. “You don’t usually bother with knocking.”

“Courtesy costs nothing,” Mycroft says. “I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“He’s not in,” John says, pre-emptively.

“Yes. That’s the point.”

“Feuding again?”

“No,” Mycroft says, visibly waiting for John to invite him further in. _Like a vampire._ “It was you I wanted to see.”

“Oh.” John nods, jerkily. “Right. That’s…come in.”

Once inside, Mycroft is quick to note the open boxes and scattered books. “You’ve been busy. Anything of interest?”

“Probably not,” John admits. “Do you want them? Moran’s books?”

“God, no. Keep them for a rainy day’s diversion.” Mycroft’s airy wave draws attention to the fact that his other hand is occupied with a plastic carrier bag. No umbrella.

 _Second time in known history,_ John thinks. “Getting some shopping in?”

Mycroft smirks at this. “No.”

“Of course not. I expect you have people for that.”

“May I?” Mycroft asks, nodding towards the sofa.

“By all means.”

The British Government descends in careful stages, first undoing the button on his jacket and then delicately plucking at the fabric over his knees. It’s all very proper, and John suppresses a mixture of horror and inappropriate mirth at the thought that the sofa had (almost certainly) borne witness to activities that Mycroft would likely find distasteful. Well. Sherlock had cleaned the rug. By extension, the sofa is bound to be safe. _Delete!_   John thinks, and then  _I don't know how._

But this is Mycroft. He cuts John a brief and considering glance. “I do know where my brother is.”

“Okay,” John says cautiously, settling into his own chair.

“Is it?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Your body language begs to differ.”

John looks down at his own fingers, which seem to be embedding themselves deep within the padded armrest. _Like the dead woman in the cottage._ “It’s fine.”

Mycroft tilts his head. “You sound conflicted.”

“You said you know where he is. So you know who he’s with.”

“Yes, I do.”

Mycroft proves much less susceptible to silent staring than Sherlock is, so John resorts to speech after a lengthy, awkward pause. “Right. How long before Victor Trevor gets hauled away to an abandoned warehouse, then?”

Mycroft doesn’t quite laugh at this. “I already know everything I need to know about Mr. Trevor.”

“Meaning?”

“It won’t last.”

“You seem awfully sure of that.”

“I am.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why?”

“I have any number of reasons.” He does not elaborate.

John scowls down at the rug. “Right. Well. Should he mysteriously disappear, don’t ask me to lie about it to your brother.”

Mycroft’s face settles into polite blankness. “Ah. Yes. Miss Adler. I must apologise for that.”

“Yes,” John says. “You really should.”

“I do. I’m aware I put you in an awkward position. I regret having done so.”

“Good.”

Mycroft’s eyes flick down to John’s hands again. “Deflection, I think, despite your genuine feeling. Let me reassure you on two points. One: I am in possession of Mr. Trevor’s medical records.”

John gapes at him. “You…what? That's illegal.”

“You’re a physician, John. While you may object to a breach in confidentiality on principle, surely you understand the nature of my concern.”

That’s an awfully blunt way to express it, but…John gets it. He does. That doesn’t stop his inadvertent shudder.

Mycroft doesn’t miss this. “Distasteful, I agree. But necessary. My brother’s track record with regard to his own safety is, as you are aware, not the best.”

God knows what Victor gets up to, but if John were running a blood bank, Sherlock would be the one raising all the red flags. He isn’t going to say that, though. “So he’s…clean.”

“Quite.”

“What’s the second thing? Has he got a criminal record?”

“He hasn’t, no.” Mycroft’s expression is quizzical, but (John fancies) oddly approving. “Interesting. You don’t trust him. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“Something rings false,” John says, slowly. “What, I don’t know. I wish I did.” He glances down at his own left hand, and it’s still clawed deeply into the upholstery. He frowns, and flexes his fingers. “When he speaks, it’s as if all the words are…chosen for effect. Or…that’s not quite it. I’d call him shallow, but there’s something else there at work, underneath. Or I’ve imagined that. Maybe it’s nothing.” He swallows. “I’m partially to blame, for all of this. I met him in a cafe. By chance, but I didn’t have to…He asked questions about Sherlock. And then he just…appeared. Sherlock took it oddly. Badly, I would have said, but then Victor came back. Last night. To make a long story short, I spent a very awkward morning with Sherlock. He seemed to be under the impression that I’d...well. Abandon him for being gay.”

Mycroft blinks. “Ah. Did he use that term to describe himself?”

“He really didn’t have to.”

“You did, then. There’s your mistake. He would not.”

“So it’s a matter of…shame? I told him. I don’t care.”

“No, it’s a matter of definitions. Accuracy. I know my brother. Sherlock has always found the sexual irrelevant. Of minor academic interest, where it pertains to crime, but nothing more. To define himself as _gay_ would be like you defining yourself as a driver when you have neither a driving license nor a car.”

John wonders whether Mycroft is aware of the darker implications of that analogy. “I don’t _drive_ because I…but you already know that.” Of course he does. Mycroft has access to his therapy transcripts. John exhales forcefully through his nose. “Right. Did something happen? To Sherlock? Is that why he's...the way he is?"

Mycroft’s eyebrows don’t rise very far. “With regards to sex? Only in an observational capacity. Much as it pains me to speak ill of the dead, our mother was not discreet in her affairs.”

“So he…what? Saw something nasty in the woodshed?”

“No,” Mycroft says, gravely, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from one immaculate grey knee. “It was, in fact, the conservatory, and the results of that discovery were deeply upsetting to us all.” He coughs. “Naturally, I had reason to wonder whether this incident had resulted in a sort of lasting psychological trauma. I suspect, now, that it’s simply a personal peculiarity: an extension of his distaste for things of the flesh.”

John winces. “Disinterest and distaste are two different things. You don’t think there’s something…dodgy going on with Victor, do you? Something…coercive?”

“No. If I thought that, Mr. Trevor would be dead.” Mycroft’s expression does not indicate that he intends this as a joke.

“That’s, ah…good to know.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft gazes pensively at the bison skull, and then returns his attention to John. “Don’t trouble yourself over this unduly. I told you: it will not last.”

“And then what? Because by the look of it, the previous round was pretty scarring.”

“Of course it was scarring. They were two lonely, volatile young men at university. Sherlock was emotionally illiterate and already well on his way to becoming an addict. There were also…familial difficulties. No. My brother is, in essence, much the same person, but the circumstances are very different. He has friends now, John. He has you. And whatever he may think, after he emerges from his…bender, you’ll still be here. He may not believe that, but I do.” There’s a long, fraught silence.

Then Mycroft glances at the bag slouched beside him, and coughs. “Marie Morrison.”

John starts at the mention of her name, but it’s a welcome diversion. “Yes? We met. Last night. She had quite a lot to say, actually. It’s pretty strong stuff.”

“Good. I’d like you to arrange another meeting.”

“Okay.”

The bag contains a miniature recorder and ten thirty-minute cassettes, still encased in cellophane. “I have my reasons,” Mycroft says, when John looks at him in polite disbelief. “Your job is persuading her to use them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything she can remember. Names, dates, locations. She is not to refer to herself by name.”

“Right.”

“And John?”

“Yeah?”

“Sooner would be better. Things are…closing in. You can give her my assurance that she will be protected, but I need the information. It’s going to a third party. That person will be responsible for making the contents public.”

“So you’re doing it. How?”

“It will be leaked. That’s all I can say at present. And I’ll remind you, I can’t be seen to be involved. My brother cannot be seen to be involved. You…forgive me, but you’re less likely to excite public comment. Meet her somewhere. Not here. When she’s finished, meet her again to retrieve the cassettes. Contact me directly. If he asks, don’t describe the details.”

“If who asks?”

“Sherlock. Do not, and this is of vital importance, tell him what is in this bag. You can tell him anything else you like, but not that.”

John shakes his head. “Oh no. Absolutely not. Why would I…you’ve both said I’m a terrible liar. I hate doing it. And what difference could that detail possibly make? For that matter, why go this route at all? Why not have her record some audio files?”

“Digital data can be intercepted. Physical media can be destroyed. This will be.”

“But why can’t he know it exists? To be honest, I don’t think he cares about the case any more. He’s written it off. He was bored with it. Virtually comatose with boredom. I very nearly called Greg in a panic.”

“Don’t assume anything,” Mycroft says. “He’s distracted at the moment. It won’t last. But he’s already too close to this, because of you. Because you shot Sebastian Moran. Do not, I implore you, make this more difficult.”

“So send an operative. Someone uninvolved. Send…Jeff.”

“She doesn’t know him. She has no reason to trust him.”

“Right. So I just…do this. And hope that Sherlock doesn’t find it odd when I…don’t mention it.”

“He won’t,” Mycroft says. “I assure you of that.”

John sighs through his fingers. “Fine. You owe me for this.”

“Yes.” Mycroft sighs, and gets to his feet. “A museum, I think. Or the zoo. Something public, but crowded. You could pretend it’s a date. That shouldn’t be a hardship.”

It occurs to John that Mycroft is, as Sherlock has so frequently suggested, the devil in a three-piece suit.

* * *

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, but he sees stars. They’re not, at least, five pointed or photo-luminescent green. There is no Southern Cross.

Victor is here, though, lying beside him in the dark. His fingers twist idly through Sherlock’s hair. “That was the third,” he says, and his voice is rougher, lower than it was before. “How odd.”

“It wasn’t,” Sherlock says, automatically. “Taken in order, that was the fourth.”

“Hmmm? Oh. That. No, I mean it just occurred to me that that was the third time you let me do that. Ever. It struck me as sad.”

Not the list, then, the dictated one. _It’s not a check list,_ Victor said. It might as well be.

“I used to wonder why,” Victor continues. “Was I really so bad?”

“No.” Sherlock blinks, and the stars are still there, pinpricks at the edges of his eyes. Surely he’s not mistaking metaphor for reality again. He turns to look at Victor, and he’s a pale shape in the dark, outlined in flickering edges of—Oh. That hasn’t happened in years. He has, perhaps, a fifteen-minute window to stop the progression of it all. Paracetamol, aspirin, and a strong cup of tea. He dimly recalls a promising glimpse of white tile two doors away, but his limbs feel too leaden to move.

Victor sighs. “I don’t suppose it matters much, now.” His fingers slip down over Sherlock’s face, brushing over his lips. “But no one else has ever complained.”

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock says. “I didn’t,” but then Victor’s mouth is on his own. He tastes his own bitter discharge there, on Victor’s teeth, on his tongue. It isn’t at all what he remembers, but that might be the aura. _Stupid word,_ aura. _Not a cloud, not an…emanation. Just crossed wires. Neurological nonsense._

“I know,” Victor says, after a breath, one fingertip sliding over the slightly scabbed lines on Sherlock’s cheek. He still hasn’t asked about that, although his pause suggests he’s considering it. Instead, he pulls away and says, “Indulge me. Tell me about the house. Its occupants.”

“Your friends,” Sherlock begins, speculatively. “Late thirties, consider themselves creatives, no children, low on cash after they purchased the house. They’re renovating the place in pieces. She is English, he is an immigrant. Spanish. She’s known you for years, he met you after they married. They’re doing you a favour by letting you stay here. In return, you’re to let the builders in.”

“Very nearly accurate,” Victor says. “They’re not married yet.”

It’s not a massive mistake, but it’s irksome. The signs of something as distinct as a wedding being planned should have been screamingly apparent, but Sherlock had missed them. _Stupid._ What else had he missed?

“They will be tomorrow, though,” Victor continues. “I was invited. I decided not to go.”

“You enjoy travel, and you’ve never been to Spain. It is Spain. You’d mentioned that before. Why not go? Work? No. You’re between assignments. Money? No. Your finances are in a tangle, but you could have managed, had you wanted to. Why not, then? Clearly there will be someone else there, someone you’d rather not…” Sherlock very nearly selects the wrong verb here, but catches it before his pause becomes too obvious. “…encounter.”

“True. That was…impressive. Went a bit beyond the house, though.” Victor’s face is turned away (not that Sherlock could see it if it wasn’t), and his voice sounds odd. Admiring, but not incandescently so, the way John would be. “This is where I should mention that this is Jane’s house. Emma’s daughter Jane. You slept in her bed, once. You called it girly.”

“Emma,” Sherlock repeats blankly.

“Yes. She was our housekeeper.”

Sherlock blinks. “Oh.” Watercolours. Brasso. Two Yorkies with squeaky-boot voices and tiny teeth. Their owner, a woman not unlike Mrs. Hudson—barring the kitten heels, purple dresses, hip, and sordid past. “She’s still alive.”

“Very much so. She telephones at Christmas,” Victor says. “And my birthday. Every year, without fail. Like clockwork.”

“Ah.” Sherlock squints in the general direction of the door. The dancing shapes had acquired a blink tag at some point during his deductions, and that’s not a good sign. The treatment window is closing.

“Yes. She’s a lovely person, and I do miss her. I’d just…rather not. She knows me too well, and I’ve come under enough scrutiny, lately. To have it come from someone who…someone who cares, someone who knows me, that’s always worse, isn’t it? It’s dissection under friendly little knives.” Victor’s breath hisses out between his teeth. “Disappointment. That’s what it would be. Because god forbid I ever attempt to live alone. Oh no. There has to be a dog, a flatmate, a bloody civil partnership, if at all possible. I dodged that one, and now it will be all _Poor Dear Victor. He’d been doing so well. Jane, surely you know some nice young men.”_ He snorts. “Do you know what Jane actually said to me, before she left? She said, _If the rebound hits while you’re still here, keep it out of our bedroom. And try not to break anything._  Which is a bit unfair. I'm not...like that. Though if you’re wondering, this is not, in fact, their room.”

“But you did break something,” Sherlock says. 

“What?”

“You’ve cut your finger.”

“Oh. Yes. That. I’d forgotten. It was only a water glass. I’ll buy them some new ones.”

He sounds uncharacteristically blithe about that, because Victor has always hated breaking anything. But the mention of water is a provident reminder. “Do you have any tea? Coffee? Any painkillers?” Sherlock asks.

“I…think so. I mean, I’m sure they do. I didn’t bring much with me. Why?”

“Migraine.”

“Oh god. I hope that’s not my fault.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock says. “Where?”

“Tea’s in the kitchen. There’s a medicine cabinet. I’ve no idea what it contains, but you could try your luck. Two doors down.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gets out of bed, and a wave of dizziness sets in. He stands, swaying, on the carpet. Then the pain arrives. It makes him gasp.

“Are you all right?”

“No,” Sherlock says, honestly.

Victor surges up out of the bed in a flurry of pale limbs and dark sheets. “Tea I can find. Best if I don’t guess about the painkillers. I’m sorry. I keep them in different bottles at home. Or I did. Ned used to…that’s not important.” He steps in and puts his hand on Sherlock’s elbow. “Here,” he says.

Sherlock allows himself to be steered towards the door, and then he shakes Victor’s hand away. The light in the toilet would be harsh under any circumstance, but it’s excruciating now. The medicine cabinet is a chipped white metal affair with a mirrored door. Sherlock avoids his reflection and tears it open. Ordinarily, he’d spare some consideration for the contents—medicine cabinets say so much about their owners—but he skips all that because there’s a glorious yellow box on the third shelf. Anadin Extra; soluble, but he’ll take it and be grateful.

He makes his way down the hall in blessed darkness, following the muted sounds of activity in the kitchen. There, Victor is revealed, standing unabashedly nude by the eerie blue glow of the electric kettle. It’s a cheaper version of the one at 221B. “Did you find something?”

“I did.” Sherlock comes to stand beside him, watching the bubbles rise. It’s hypnotic, in a way. “Haven’t had one in years,” he says.

“Is it...caused by anything in particular?”

“No idea.”

“Oh.” The kettle beeps, and Victor slowly pours water into the heavy glass mug beside it.

“How do you know when to stop?”

“Sound. Or I scald myself. Not often.” Victor does stop then, testing the depth with one finger. The surface is a safe centimetre down from the rim.

Sherlock reaches out to receive the offered cup, just as the light dies.

“Should we sit?”

“No.” Sherlock counts off a minute in his head—too brief, but he intends to leave the bag in. He tears open the paper wrapper by feel and drops two tablets into the cup. There’s a faint hiss as they make contact with the water.

“What was that?”

“Anadin.”

“The fizzy kind? That’s disgusting. I could have given you a glass of water.”

“No point. I need the caffeine.” Sherlock takes a swig—too hot—and it’s positively vile.

“Anything I can do?”

“No.”

“Should I be quiet?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock forces himself to take another swallow. It makes his throat burn and his stomach heave.

Eventually, he manages to finish it without embarrassment. “Bed?” Victor asks, hearing the mug make contact with the sink. “I don’t expect you’ll sleep after all that, but you’ll be more comfortable.”

He isn’t, at first. The stabbing pain returns when he lies down, the change in altitude sending blood rushing back into his skull. Victor gently but firmly redirects Sherlock’s head to his thigh and begins stroking through his hair. It’s not unpleasant. Sherlock lets him.

“It’s funny,” Victor says, after a long silence, “how certain sorts of action come unstuck in time. I’m doing this now, and I’m also doing this in the past. It bleeds together. Does that make sense?”

Sherlock is feeling disconnected now, the result of the medication, perhaps. He can tell that Victor is about to set off on one of his philosophical rambles, but he finds he doesn’t much care.

“Someone told me once, that when you drive for hours in the dark, there’s always a moment where it feels as if you’re driving somewhere else. That the road you’re on becomes every other road you’ve ever driven in the dark. The locative becomes irrelevant. Time becomes irrelevant. It’s a lovely sort of thought. What if it wasn’t an illusion? What if there were a sort of…non linear highway? A wood between the worlds, as Lewis would have it? I don’t suppose it would work for me.”

“I shouldn’t think it would work for anyone,” Sherlock remarks. “Assuming the physics were at all plausible, is it all left hand drive? Statistically, it ought to be. A single lane? Are there other travellers? There'd be collisions.”

Victor laughs. “Naturally, _your_ first thought involves some form of mayhem. I present you with an admittedly far-fetched, romantic notion, and you’ve reduced it all to twisted metal. Well done.”

“It wasn’t a very well constructed fantasy.”

“Perhaps I’m out of practise,” Victor says. “Let us, by all means, discuss the gritty and the real.”

“Your leg is sweaty.”

“I think that’s your face. If you find it unpleasant, you’re free to take it away.”

Sherlock doesn’t. After a moment, Victor says “Tell me about a case, then. That should be sufficiently rooted in reality.”

“Why? You’ve read John’s blog.”

“And very entertaining it was, too. Still, I think I’d prefer something in your own words. There was a time before John, wasn’t there? Tell me one of those.”

There was a time before John. Almost unthinkably, there was. The notion makes Sherlock feel strange and very nearly spiteful, so he tells Victor about the table that wasn’t a table. He describes the girl’s bound, bent body, the skilfully applied blue paint covering her skin—smooth, but cracking at the creases of her joints. The golden stars and the heavy, beaded black wig, ends pooling on the cold concrete beneath her. He’d found her in an empty warehouse. No one had bothered to remove the oil stains from the floor.

“Oh,” Victor says. “That’s oddly beautiful.”

“Is it?”

“It shouldn’t be, but it is. It makes me think of the tortoise in _A Rebours._ Do you know it?”

“No.”

“The protagonist is a man who…well. He was easily bored. Not like you; he was a sort of aesthete. The book is largely given to descriptions of excess. People found it shockingly immoral, at the time. Now it just seems ridiculous. Pages and pages of interior decorating schemes, and very little actual vice. Wilde did a better version with Dorian Gray, I think. Although he apparently took his inspiration from Huysmans, so that’s something.”

 _“Tortoise,”_ Sherlock says, pointedly.

“Yes. I was getting to that. Someone had given this man a tortoise as a gift. He had its shell plated with gold, and that was moderately entertaining, but it wasn’t enough. So he had it set with jewels. Very intricate, very heavy. When it was done, he admired his handiwork, only to discover that the tortoise had died under the weight of its own gilded shell.”

“Unlikely. Perhaps it was poisoned by the cyanide during the gold plating process.”

“Or perhaps he simply never bothered to feed it. Still. It’s the sort of image that lingers, isn’t it? Something beautiful and terrible. Something awe-inspiring and awful. There’s a word for that in Greek, but as you’re clearly falling asleep, I think I’ll keep that to myself.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, because he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> I won't subject you to endless apologies (although I offer them). It's slightly longer than usual, at least. It could have been longer still, but I imprisoned Victor in a soundproof box. Dark confession time: this chapter was very nearly completed months ago, but I fell into a pit of writing ennui.
> 
> Thank you for reading, if you haven't given up. Thanks also go to **A_Tiger** for the chapter beta, **WhenISayFriend** for having faith that I'd continue, and all the lovely people like **red buttonhole** who politely reminded me that I'd left this hanging for far too long. 
> 
> Next time: more action and a trip to the zoo.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! 
> 
> Over the last year or so I've written 50-odd pages of this chapter, and it never did seem to come out correctly. Like John, I suppose, I was tired of the inevitable conversation. I resented it. But it kept happening, and the most absurd and insane things followed. I cut them out. I left them in. I made them worse. And Real Life was very, very busy. It made this all seem a bit silly and disconnected and self-indulgent, at times. That doesn't mean it didn't haunt me, constantly. Because I DO know where the rest of this story goes. I just couldn't get beyond this stupid, stupid chapter.
> 
> Oh well. It's published now, and almost apocalyptically unedited. I expect I'll go over it tomorrow and cringe. And edit. ;)

When Mrs. Hudson interrupts his lunch with an expensive cream-coloured envelope containing two tickets to the London Zoo, John isn’t entirely surprised. He’d already looked at the website the night before, briefly admired footage of diving penguins, and then balked at the cost. 

“Such a nice young man,” she says, apparently referring to the person who had delivered it. “He said he couldn’t stay.”

John sighs, wondering what it would take (short of femininity or geriatric status), to make anyone _not_ a Nice Young Man. Mycroft’s male operatives are frequently Nice Young Men. Various members of Sherlock’s homeless network are Nice Young Men, unless they’re unusually smelly, in which case they become Such a Shame. Greg Lestrade, despite his silver hair, is a Nice Young Man when he’s not That Handsome Detective Inspector instead. The false Bill Richardson? A Nice Young Man, until proven otherwise.

“Thanks, Mrs. H,” John says, eyeing the oddly soulful tortoises printed on the glossy tickets lying on the table beside his ham sandwich.

“Such a lovely thought. I expect it’s a grateful client. Or an admirer.”

John snorts at this. “Hardly. No, someone wants me to have a _nice afternoon.”_

Mrs. Hudson reacts to his tone with rounded eyes. “I don’t see what’s so bad about that.”

“No, it’s just…” John shakes his head. “A sort of a…joke. Never mind.”

“You ought to make a day of it. Enjoy yourselves,” she says, brightly. “Mrs. Turner’s boys took her out for her birthday last month, and she talked about it for weeks. They have fruit bats now, in a forest. I don’t think I’d like that much, but she said they were sweet.”

“Mrs. Turner has surprising depths,” John says over a brief twinge of guilt. When is Mrs. Hudson’s birthday? He should remember. They’d had a chat about horoscopes fairly recently.

“And Sherlock likes bats,” she continues. 

“Dead ones over the mantelpiece,” John agrees. “Not so sure about live ones. More importantly, though, I don’t know when he’ll be at home. What about you? Fancy a trip to the zoo tomorrow?”

“I’d love to, dear, but that’s my book group afternoon. We’re doing Anne Perry.”

“Oh.” So much for thwarting Mycroft. John sighs again, because he had already arranged a coffee meeting with Marie via text. She had said she had the day off, but still. A day at the zoo is a bit of an escalation from coffee. And what if the zoo staff search his bag upon entry? Do they do that now? What would he say? _Sorry. I’m just…recording bird calls for future study. Interviewing some llamas. Asking children about their school trip. Nothing dodgy! Please don’t call for backup. No, it’s not a bomb. I’d know. I mean, not that. It’s just a perfectly valid piece of 1990s technology, and I—_

“…a _murderess,”_ Mrs. Hudson finishes in a flurry, and then blinks at him. “John? I don’t mean to pry, dear, but is everything all right between you boys? Only there was some shouting yesterday morning, and I did wonder…”

“Right.” John shakes off his paranoid fantasy and says, “Sorry, yes. We had a bit of a…misunderstanding.” It’s not really a lie, but he’d rather not be having any version of _that_ conversation all over again. 

She tilts her head at him. “He has been on edge, hasn’t he? It can be difficult, seeing an old friend. Takes you back.”

“Yes. I think it did.”

“And it isn’t always pleasant. Although Victor seems a very nice young man…”

John suppresses a snort at this.

“…but I must say, I was surprised. I wouldn’t have thought him Sherlock’s type at all.”

“Had you asked me a few days ago,” John says, “I wouldn’t have said Sherlock _had_ a type. But apparently we were both wrong.”

Typically, she takes that in the wrong direction. “Oh, love. Whatever went on between them, I’m sure it wasn’t…you mustn’t let the past bother you. That’s over with.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it isn’t, actually. Victor, ah…he came back the other night. And left in the morning.” _Shit._ He shouldn’t have said that. Now that conversation is definitely on again. 

“Oh dear. I wouldn’t have thought it of Sherlock.” Her face is creased with concern. “After everything he put you through.”

John struggles with his wayward hands, which are attempting a minor (if undecided) act of violence upon the remains of his sandwich. “Oh, for fu— _god’s_ sake, Mrs. Hudson! I don’t… He’s allowed to have a…whatever Victor is. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not his boyfriend. I wish you’d get that through your head. I wish everyone would.”

She purses her lips. “Yes, dear, I do know that.”

“Do you? Do you really? I don’t think you do. Because I’ve told you. Sherlock and I are friends. Friends, colleagues, flat mates. All of those things. But that’s also—and this is very important—all we are. I have girlfriends, for Christ’s sake. Not at the moment, but I have had. I’m straight. And just because he’s…not, it makes no difference to our relationship. Which is that of _friends,”_ he adds sternly.

Mrs. Hudson sighs. “I think, perhaps, that things were easier when they didn’t have names.”

“Were they?” John regards her with suspicion, fearing an incoming mention of funny uncles or Mrs. Turner’s married ones. 

“I don’t know, really.” She frowns. “No, actually, I don’t suppose they were. But all this modern nonsense gets in the way.”

“Modern…nonsense,” John repeats. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, John. People have such complicated relationships nowadays, don’t they? I suppose I mean that it doesn’t matter what you call it. You boys are two peas in a pod,  however much you disagree at times. I think it’s lovely.”

John opens and then shuts his mouth. Lovely isn’t a word he’d use. Or peas, for that matter. Sherlock would make a terrible pea. They both would. 

“And I also think that sometimes, two people are meant for each other. Oh, I don’t mean sex, dear. That’s…well. It isn’t everything. You can have all that, can’t you, and never…what I mean to say is, it would be a shame if either of you let this upset you. If you let it change things.”

“I wasn’t upset. He was. He just…jumped to some conclusions that happened to be wrong. And I’m sorry about all the shouting, I really am. You know how he is when he’s determined to have a strop. He didn’t listen to a word I said. But now he has, and it’s fine.”

“Well, there you are, then,” Mrs. Hudson concludes brightly. “I expect he found it all dreadfully embarrassing.”

“I don’t think Sherlock can be embarrassed,” John says, although he knows that isn’t strictly true. “Unless it’s the Christmas antlers. Or Mycroft.”

“Or people noticing he’s human.”

“Or that.” John clears his throat. 

“We always knew that, though, didn’t we, John?”

“Yes. But…maybe let’s stop talking about Sherlock, for now. It isn’t fair on him.”

She leans forward and pats his hand. “No, you’re right.” She gazes through the doorway and says, with a dangerous gleam in her eye, “Now, I’ve been meaning to ask. Are all of these books staying? Only there isn't room for any more shelves."

* * *

Sherlock is drifting, ice cold and numb in the blackness. 

His thoughts are slow, vast dark shapes moving half-seen and wholly unwanted. He might be dreaming. He doesn’t know. He could, perhaps, prove to himself that he is not, by executing a simple movement. Just a twitch: a limb, or a finger. That’s too ambitious.

Breathing, then. He’s doing that. He must be. If he directs his attention to his lungs, he can prove it. 

There.

And wasn’t that a monumentally stupid exercise, because of course he’s alive. He absolutely is: that’s one convenient aspect of holding the conviction that consciousness stops with death. _Cogito ergo sum._ That certainty is as close as he’ll ever come to religion. 

_Je pense, donc je suis._

_I think I think I think_

Too much. Keep it abstract. That’s better than the self-indulgent, maudlin nonsense he’d been soaking in before, the relentless recurrent procession of moments, words, and bleak, uncompromising images. John, his face lined and stern as he draws smoke into his lungs, saying _Don’t think that this means that I approve, because I don’t._ Before that, though, his hands: pressing down against Sherlock’s chest in the dark. Such a strange thing to do, only it wasn’t, was it? Not to a man who spent years restarting hearts and halting haemorrhages. Viewed through that lens, it all makes perfect sense. _You’re not dead. You’re not dead,_ and it’s too cold, much too cold to think of hands, any hands at all. Hands aren’t…they’re not a thing. Bodies aren’t. Not his. Not anyone’s.

Cold, cold, cold. No hands. No eyes. No body. Good. He can live with that. That’s what makes things work. That’s what lets _him_ work—

A sudden violent sound spoils it all. A toilet flushing, and that makes no sense.

Sherlock starts, abruptly discovering that he has got a body, after all. He slides under, and fills his lungs with water. It burns. He thrashes. He chokes.

He coughs and he coughs, perilously close to vomiting, stiff fingers clawing at cold porcelain, and only then does he register the fact that someone else’s fingers are wrapped about his throat. Or no, they’re not, no: _don’t be stupid._ They’re only holding him fast against the tile. Pulling him upwards, now, hooked under his arms. 

“God,” Victor says, indistinct and distorted above him, “but you’re freezing. How long have you been in here? I thought you’d gone.”

Sherlock heaves and says nothing. Then the shivering begins. Victor’s hands disappear, and he hears the unmistakeable sound of the drain.

The hands return. Gentle now, brushing over his face. There’s the sodden slap of fabric below them, clinging unpleasantly to the skin of his chest. Sleeves. “Let’s get you upright,” Victor says. 

“No.” 

“Yes,” Victor insists. “Please.” 

“I’m fine.”

“Certainly. That’s why you’ve been mortifying your flesh in ice water.”

“It was warm when I got in.”

“Hours ago, by the feel of it. I believe you.” Victor lets him go, then. There’s a rushing, rattling sound overhead and the shower comes on, hot and brutal. Sherlock flinches beneath it, teeth clamping down against the positively horrendous sound threatening to tear its way out of his mouth.

It emerges despite this. Victor doesn’t mention he’s heard it, but he doesn’t leave. “Shut up,” Sherlock grits out, past the nauseating pain in his head. “Shut up.”

“Eat something,” Victor says to Sherlock thirty minutes later. He’s sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa. There’s a chipped blue ceramic plate beside him, bearing fruit and a pale wedge of cheese. 

Sherlock examines the thin haze blooming over the surface of a small red grape extended between Victor’s damp fingers, and shudders. “No.”

Victor shrugs, and takes it away again. “Suit yourself,” he says, pausing to lick at the drops of water between his fingers, “But if you’re still feeling ill, the sugar might do you some good.” He punctuates this by biting neatly into the fruit, his teeth bisecting it into nearly perfect, wholly unnecessary hemispheres. 

“I’m not,” Sherlock says, although he is, to some extent. It’s manageable now, the pain. Just an ugly red pressure behind his eyes. 

Victor swallows. “It’s only fruit. It doesn’t doom you to anything, no matter what the stories suggest.”

“Interesting choice of word, doom,” Sherlock says, watching his throat move between crisp white collar points. 

“Your fault. I hadn’t known about the eyes until you told me. Now that you have, I do feel doomed—yes, doomed—to imagine them. Thanks for that.”

Sherlock had turned the majority of the paintings to face the bedroom wall hours ago, but he knows they’re still there. Still watching. He says, “You might be interested to know that one set belongs to you.”

“Not impossible,” Victor allows. “I’ve sat for Federico before, although not for that specific purpose. I do think that makes it worse.” 

“How?”

“Well, to start with, it’s unfair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” Victor eats another grape, this time with less deliberation. “My eyes are always seeing things without my leave. Extending the metaphor into art is needlessly cruel.”

“How is it cruel? It’s only a painting. There are twelve, in fact. Only one of them is you.”

“And did you turn that one to the wall? Or just the others?”

“I turned them all. I found them distracting.”

“Distracting, or disturbing? Mine, or theirs?”

Sherlock reaches out to steal Victor’s water glass. The tumbler is thick and graceless in his hands. “Is this the same as the one you broke?”

“What?” 

“The glass you broke yesterday,” Sherlock insists, annoyed by Victor’s need for repetition. “Was it like this one?”

“Yes. Why? It isn’t a priceless antique, I hope.”

“No. IKEA, circa 2009. Worth about a quid. It is quite heavy, though,” Sherlock says, speculatively. “Breaking that required force.”

“Perhaps I was angry,” Victor says, although his voice is calm and even.  “Perhaps I threw it at the wall. Does it matter?”

It does, but Sherlock doesn’t know why. His headache, much diminished, is still a dark throbbing presence stealing focus just beyond the edge of consciousness. It was there when he first woke, shocked by the humid warmth of Victor’s body curled against his own. It was the pain that prompted him to extricate himself from Victor’s grasp at dawn and unhook all of the paintings, one by one, and lean them carefully against the wall.

Definitely pain and not the eyes themselves. It had to be that, because Sherlock has held human eyes in his hands, gloved and sometimes not: plump and cold and decidedly dead. Those never did make him feel ill, although he’s given to understand that most people find such things revolting: Sally, and to a much lesser extent, John. John, who has tucked warm viscera back into the abdominal cavities of breathing men (pressed them into place, held them there) should not be at all concerned about the dead (who do not feel). He shouldn’t, but sometimes, unaccountably, he is.

“No,” Sherlock says. “It does not.” 

When he leaves the house, it’s early afternoon. Victor had received a telephone call. Something about builders and tile, although he’d begun the conversation by saying “Congratulations. I think.” Sherlock knows more than he will ever need to know about Jane, her house, and her husband. 

Now Sherlock’s feet strike the pavement in a distinct counterpoint to the song in his head, guitars tinnily chasing each other to no real conclusion. Victor had cut it off long before the phrase completed. _Why did you do that? I’m right here._

Sherlock had been testing his theory that Victor was the sort of person who liked to assign personalised ringtones. A correct theory, it seems, because his own number resulted in something completely unlike Jane’s. Jane has Vivaldi. Sherlock has…something else.

He doesn’t _want_ to hear the song again, doesn’t want to waste brain power determining its personal significance or ultimate conclusion. Still, he feels certain he can predict how the phrase resolves. Is it extrapolation or memory? Why won’t it stop?

 _Shut up shut up shut up_ (he might, accidentally, have said aloud earlier).

_I hadn’t said anything. Are you sure you’re all right?_

_I said it was fine, and it’s fine._

_I don’t think I believe you._

Piccadilly Circus, now. That’s a mistake. Guitars, guitars, and swerving, teetering buses and abrupt taxis at every fucking turn. At least it isn’t night. The lights would, quite possibly kill him if it were night. He stops, and gazes up into the massive, heavily mascaraed eyes of an actress. Twenty five, with the intellect of a boot scraper and an anxious, incandescent smile. Perfect teeth, clearly veneers. He blinks.

Perfect teeth, only paper. 

Victor’s teeth: not perfect, no, but curving so terribly, so beautifully. One incisor catching at his lower lip. _Breathe,_ he had said, over the din of Sherlock’s own, awful, rattling teeth and the roar of the water. _I’d say relax, but it’s you._

[shut up] 

A woman pushes her way out of a shop door, stands hovering over a rubbish bin, and her face is set, struggling with something. She slips a hand down inside her hideous pink crocodile handbag _,_ and it emerges with a packet of cigarettes. She doesn’t allow herself to look down, but glances in two directions before carefully depositing them on the edge of the bin, clearly too invested to throw them away completely. 

Sherlock is well-acquainted with her expression, although he’d like to think he’s never worn it himself. She walks away (slight hesitation; she’ll buy more in two days, possibly sooner if the new boyfriend doesn’t… _something)_ up the street. 

Sherlock waits a full thirty seconds before he veers to collect them. There are ten left, set in crisp, expensive gilt paper, because of _course_ the Last Packet should be an extravagance. Her reasoning, of course: he’s never done that. No, if anything, he’d always tailed it all off with the worst possible brand, filterless and stale, so harsh they made him choke in anticipation before he even lit one. That way, stopping always seemed like an act of mercy. 

He’s twenty-five minutes away before his heedless fingers remember that he doesn’t carry a lighter nowadays. Good. The point of the exercise lies in denial. Restraint. He could smoke, but he isn’t. He won’t. 

Years later, or so it seems, he’s climbing the stairs at Baker Street, one hand still tracing the sharp  edges of the box in his coat pocket. The guitars are still there, still chasing, still stopping. He stops before he stumbles. Ah, yes: that one broken step: so reliably, so _safely_ off true. Then it’s the door. He wrestles his way out of his coat and drapes it over the hook, but it falls, a sad wreckage of slumping cloth. He lets it go, because if he’s going to bend now, to risk another icepick to the occipital, it had really better be worth it. 

John is there when he turns, a startled, heightened snapshot of himself in a checked shirt and widened eyes. He says, “Oh. Sherlock, you’re—“

“What?” Sherlock growls, but he’s already sinking down, into the cool welcoming leather of the sofa, guitars and head be damned.

His eyes snap shut on impact, and there it is: the dusty LP Mycroft had pinched from Father’s abandoned study one winter afternoon. On the jacket, a man in a silk dress, reclining on tumbled blue velvet. One languid hand pushing long curling hair away from his face. _It was the seventies,_ Mycroft had said, as if that explained anything at all. He lets the needle drop again.

_Oh no. Not me. I never lost control…_

Mycroft, much older and blurring around the edges, coughs discreetly in the distance. _Naturally_ that’s _the part you’d remember. Does it become true, if you repeat it often enough?_

 _Do shut up, Mycroft,_ Sherlock tells him. _I’m dying._

* * *

John gets through the rest of the afternoon cautiously and quietly, until it becomes clear that Sherlock is beyond waking. Frankly, John’s beginning to worry—the man looks alarmingly like a medieval tomb effigy with his hands folded over his chest, his breathing practically undetectable— but then around six o’clock, he lets out a rattling snore and twists into the foetal position, his face set against the back of the sofa. 

It’s almost as if Sherlock is sulking in his sleep. He’s got a terrible case of thirty-six hour, unexpected hotel stay hair, and that only adds to the effect. Somehow, that’s surprising. Victor seems the expensive hair product sort. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t seen him after all. For all John knows, he’d spent the night in a ditch.

No. There was dog hair on his coat. John had stooped to pick it up after Sherlock barrelled into the flat and collapsed. Maybe he isn’t the world’s best detective, but that had been awfully hard to miss. Enough speculation, though. He isn’t about to pay Sherlock back for years of unsettling morning-after remarks about John’s girlfriends. At least, not yet.

These thoughts are interrupted by a text from Marie: _Much better use of a day off. Same time?_ and fuelled by an unreasonable surge of adrenaline, John jitters his way into the kitchen. There he does something uninspired with a frozen chicken breast and mixed vegetables, probably made less palatable because he’s distracted by the conversation he’s having with Marie via text. 

_Yeah, I like bats. Maybe not the ones with the weird leafy noses. Why?_

Sherlock doesn’t wake for dinner, either, and John can’t exactly blame him. He’s had better meals cooked in a bag with a flameless ration heater, for christ’s sake. That’s what he gets for fighting with the auto-correct function and attempting to cook at the same time.

Later, John returns to rummage through boxes of books, namely a few Jane’s Guns Recognition Guides and an old surgical manual with hand-drawn illustrations and amusingly archaic terminology. Belatedly, it occurs to him that the latter is probably worth an insane amount of money. It dates back to the First Afghan War. John Googles the title, starts at his screen, and then gingerly sets the book down on the mantelpiece beside the skull. For all he knows, it’s stolen goods.

Sherlock, meanwhile, continues to sleep like it’s his job. He’s on his back once again, feet still encased in shoes but now hanging off the armrest. John frowns at this, and after some deliberation, gives in to the impulse to remove them. It’s not that weird a gesture, not in the grand scheme of things. 

John thinks this, but partway through prising the second shoe away from Sherlock’s heel, the bony, black-stockinged ankle in his hand becomes animate. It twitches, and John freezes. He’s seen Sherlock kick in a door with that very foot (and also dosed him with paracetamol, afterwards, but that’s less important, under the circumstances). He really should have remembered that particular image before he decided to be so helpful. 

“Fifteen per cent likelihood,” Sherlock states, conversationally, if remotely. “Sixteen at the outside.” 

“Sherlock?” 

John warily glances up the length of the sofa, but Sherlock’s eyes remain firmly closed. “Do try to keep up,” he mutters, clearly still unconscious, but managing to sound impatient despite this. His foot has become dead weight once again. John waits, feeling uncomfortably like an action hero confronted with a confusingly-wired bomb. Then when nothing further happens, he hastily peels the shoe off his flatmate’s knobby, slightly clammy foot and backs away. 

“Green ink, John,” Sherlock says, sounding oddly aggrieved, but then he starts snoring again. John neatly arranges his shoes under the coffee table and goes to make himself a cup of tea. There are, after all, more books to get through.

Eventually, he gives up his increasingly haphazard attempts at categorising books in thematic stacks, and takes his laptop up to bed. He faffs about with various news sites, and ultimately finds himself back at the penguins. Then he falls asleep.

At 3 AM, he wakes to a plaintive violin rendition of _The Man Who Sold the World,_ and isn’t certain, at first, that he isn’t dreaming. It takes him the entire length of the song to recognise what he is hearing—the tempo is subtly wrong—and then it starts all over again. 

_I thought you’d died alone_

_A long, long time ago._

John shouldn’t be surprised; the strangest things have floated up the stairs over the years. Classical pieces he can’t name, yes, but also the odd pop song. Sometimes these seem to seep into Sherlock’s head, requiring elaborate rites of exorcism. John can never resist ribbing him about it.

_No, that’s definitely Lady Gaga you’re playing._

_That isn’t a real person’s name, John. It_ can’t _be._

John listens for a while, until the music twists and turns into something else, something far less structured. Then he sets his pillow over his head and fiercely falls asleep.

In the morning, Sherlock’s shoes and coat are gone, and so is he.

* * *

At the zoo entrance, John discovers that he’s really beginning to develop a positive knack for spotting Marie in a crowd.  It probably helps that everyone around her is half a foot shorter and dressed in school uniform. She’s wearing khakis and a dark grey hoodie. Her hair is wound in a loose knot secured by a yellow wooden pencil. And she looks...nice. But not like someone who cares.

John grins at this, because he had carefully selected one of his most pedestrian jumpers that morning (nice try, Mycroft—not a date). Although, come to think of it, the jeans he’s wearing are the ones that Sherlock once judged Not Irretrievably Awful, which means they’re probably flattering. Or are they just nicer than the others? The point is, they’re clean. 

John straightens the battered messenger bag over his shoulder (apparently they don’t check bags unless it’s the late night event, and that’s probably to prevent illicit cider from entering the premises), and goes to join her in the queue. Marie nods at his bag, and says, “Oh good. You can carry our water bottles.”

“Are we really doing that?” John asks, eyebrows raised. Is it meant to be some sort of cover, or does she really mean what she had texted about making a day of it?

“Yeah. My round, though. You did the tickets.”

“Fair enough.”

It’s surreal, standing with her amidst a flock of shrieking children as if they’re two normal people who are definitely not beginning the first stage of a classified information leak. It becomes more so when she says, “John? Top three animals.”

“Specifically, or…generally?”

“By genre is fine.” 

John frowns. “Okay. Only three? Ah…penguins.”

She nods.

“The fruit bat thing. My landlady insisted.”

Marie’s mouth quirks up a little at this. “And?”

Shit. John struggles to think of an animal, any animal at all. He glances up at the facade and into the enormous painted eyes of a tiger. It’s hard not to find them judgmental. “Big cats,” he says, resignedly. “You?”

“Giraffes. Lemurs, but not monkeys. And, ah…butterflies.”

“Really,” John says. _“Butterflies?”_

“Why not?”

“They’re a bit…well. A bit girly.”

“Mmm. Especially the ones that eat rotting meat.” 

John can’t help it. He laughs. It’s hard not to, when there’s a fluffy-haired little girl with a pink butterfly glitter backpack waiting just ahead of them. “Do you think she knows that?”

“I hope so.”

Once they’ve cleared the queue, Marie rolls her eyes at the nearest school group and says, “I think I’ve had enough of the shrieking for now.”

“Agreed.”

“So, let’s do this. Pretend you’re one of those kids. What are your bottom three animals?”

“Ugly, boring, or at the far end of the zoo?” John asks, because he can tell where she’s going with it, and he can’t disagree with her logic.

“All of the above.”

John peers at the map. “Camels,” he suggests, almost immediately. 

“That sounds personal.”

“Oh, it is. Hugely. But also, they’re pretty far away. Over by that farmhouse thing, which is probably very boring indeed, so we should go definitely go there first. Honestly. Who goes to the London Zoo to see pigs and sheep?”

“You make a good point.” 

“And for ugly…do you think they have an Aye Aye?”

“Is that the lemur with the long witchy finger? I think it was on QI.”

“That's the one. Guaranteed nightmare fodder,” John confirms proudly. “And a bonus one, because lemurs were also in your top three.”

* * *

He’s twenty-five, above average height, with the elegant and economical musculature of a dancer and the heavily calloused feet to match. His hair is fine, straight, and golden brown. His eyes are closed, but they are hazel, tending more brown than green. He is also very, very dead.  

An aortic aneurysm, according to Molly. She was suturing the Y incision with small tidy stitches when Sherlock arrived half an hour ago. 

Molly hovers behind him now, goggled, ungloved, and stirring sugar into her coffee with a little wooden stick. “He had a lovely face,” she says, softly. “I hope it didn’t hurt.”

Sherlock hadn’t found it particularly lovely, although his facial bone structure was very symmetrical. Still. “So you do consider him attractive?” 

“He’s…dead?” Molly ventures. “But I think he was. Before that.”

“Speaking objectively,” Sherlock says. “Attractive? Yes or no.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“Doesn’t it? You said he was lovely.”

“Well, yes. Anyone could see that.”

“You mean he’s aesthetically pleasing.”

“Up to a point? I’ve just cut him open and sewn him up again. That tends to change things.”

“And what, in your opinion, makes a person attractive, then? A living person, whose organs you haven’t examined.”

“I…” Molly flushes and takes a sip of her coffee. “That’s a very personal question.”

“Yes.”

“Different people like…different qualities, don’t they?” 

“For example?”

She shuffles her feet. “Um. Someone could…have a nice smile. Or a good sense of humour. That’s important.”

“Is it?”

“It is to me,” she says, lifting her chin. “But it also helps if they…if they like you, too.”

He’d never asked her about Jim from IT, not in those terms. He certainly isn’t going to now, because he knows how Moriarty had done it: kind words, a show of interest, a facade of normality overlying just a hint of awkwardness. Pretending to be gay was an interesting sub-layer, but misguided when it came to… Sherlock clears his throat. “Speaking in strictly physical terms.”

“Again, that’s…personal. I mean, there are people that everyone finds attractive. Film stars, or…I don’t know. David Beckham, if he isn’t talking. It doesn’t have to make any sense.”

“Really.” 

“It’s not rational, Sherlock. It’s just…nature, isn’t it? A sort of formula that adds up to say this person is really fit, so maybe you’d like to shag them. I mean, maybe not that…blatant. But basically, that. But also, not everyone agrees on what those things are. Because of social things, or culture. What you think is normal, or maybe unusual, or…but a lot of that isn’t real. Someone could be really good-looking, and then say stupid things in an interview and spoil it. Or you finally meet them, and they smell terrible. Or they like Margaret Thatcher too much.”

“Or they’re rude?”

Molly blushes, but she looks him straight in the eye. “Yes, well. I did get over that. Not because of the rudeness. Just…I know too much about you. Like him,” she says, nodding at the body on the slab. “Only without the bone saw or retractors. You’re just…too real, now.”

“Interesting. What if I were to kiss you?” he asks, letting his voice slide into a lower register.

Her jaw drops. “I…no.” She holds up her hand, sloshing coffee onto the concrete slab. “That’s not fair. But also, it just…I’d wonder what you really wanted. Because I’d know it wasn’t me.” 

“True. You’ve already agreed to show me some eyes.”

“That’s not what I meant. You know that.” She sets her coffee down and swabs at the spilled liquid with a crumpled paper napkin. “I know you don’t have any interest in me that way. I do. And once you know that, it really doesn’t work at all.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“No, of course not. You’re just being mean. But why all the questions? Is it something for a case?”

He could lie, but he doesn’t. “No.”

“Oh.” She peers up at him, eyes unnaturally magnified through her goggles. It’s quite unsettling. “Is this about you, or someone else?”

Sherlock looks away, focussing on the dead dancer. He concentrates on the long, slightly tanned lines of his nearly hairless calves and thighs, the sculpted plane of his torso, interrupted by incisions. The ugly absurdity of his flaccid, grey-tinged genitalia. Sherlock feels nothing whatsoever; neither revulsion, nor interest, nor even relief. No. Possibly some relief. “I don’t know.”

“But it’s something you want to understand. About people.”

“About the compulsion,” Sherlock corrects her. “Assuming a heterosexual subject, there’s an obvious evolutionary advantage. Procreation. An impulse rewarded by physiological chemistry. Dopamine, norepinephrine. The stuff of addiction. Of obsession. Strongly correlated with visual stimulus in the human male.”

“Oh,” Molly says, again. And then, very carefully, “You could always try looking at different people who are still alive, you know. If you’re…not sure.”

“What?”

“Is this about…wondering what you like? Or why you do?”

He doesn’t answer this.

“Because if it is, maybe you’re going about it the wrong way. What I said before, those things matter, too. Who a person is. What they’re like, as a person. That might matter much more than his physical appearance.”

“The Royal Mail Murderer,” Sherlock says. “2006. Seven women, all the same height, build, age, cup size, and hair colour.”

“Ye-es, but that’s….that’s a _murderer_ , Sherlock. People who do things like that aren’t exactly wired the same as anyone else. He didn’t want to know them, or even sleep with them. He wanted to…oh god. Was he the one with the hedge trimmers?”

“No. Arsenic. In the glue.”

She shudders. “Oh. Right. They licked the…right. See, the thing is, you can’t always take your understanding of human behaviour from criminal motive, can you? They weren’t people, to him. Just objects.  So they all looked a certain way. And maybe some people are like that…really set in their preferences, but most people aren’t. So I could _say_ I prefer dark-haired men in their thirties, for example—that’s just an example!—but maybe tomorrow I’ll end up dating a grey-haired man in his fifties because he’s clever, likes cats, and…actually remembers my name. And maybe it’s because I think he’s handsome now, or maybe that part will occur to me much later when I’ve already decided I like everything else about him and we’ve spent a weekend in Brighton without me wanting to push him into the sea.”

“That’s…oddly specific.”

“I have a surprising amount of spare time,” Molly reminds him, tilting her head to indicate the morgue tables. 

“You said _his_ physical appearance.”

“Oh. Sorry. Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because…well. There’s Mrs. Janssen, over there. She was good looking, I think. If you don’t mind the arm. And, actually, I’m surprised you weren’t more interested in that. I thought you would be.”

That’s fair. Ordinarily, Sherlock would be, very much so, considering the burns. Molly isn’t stupid. He’s learned that, over time. She is also, in her way, incredibly tactful. However impaired he might be, he mustn’t forget that. So he says, “Molly, the eyes, now. If you would be so kind.”

She removes her goggles with a snap. "Yes, all right. I have a really nice heterochromia iridum, some cataracts, and a severely detached retina. Do you want those, or something more ordinary?"

"I'd like to see them all. If you have the time."

"I do." She smiles at him, then. "But you're not to take any of them away with you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has remained. Special thanks to the readers who poked me so politely and with so little immediate reward! You matter, so very much. 
> 
> There will be more, and soon, despite my current other projects. As ever, your comments and criticism are welcome and appreciated. I will, while I can, carry on this little oasis from Series 3 to its conclusion. And I do hope some of you will see fit to accompany me along the way.


	16. Chapter 16

It’s stuffy and warm In With the Lemurs, and Marie takes her hoodie off. She’s got a trim black vest on underneath, and John finds himself almost immediately looking away above her head as if compelled. 

It isn’t the fine, straight lines of her neck, the delicate prominence of her collarbones, or the hint of modest cleavage. It isn’t even the way her waist curves in (how could he ever have mistaken her for a teenaged boy?). It’s the lack of obvious scarring. 

Marie doesn’t catch him looking. She catches him looking away. “What?”

“Sorry,” John says, sounding stupid even to himself. “Sorry, I just…” Somehow, he’d expected to see something…worse. More than a mark: twisted flesh. Deep furrows, cut into skin. And there aren’t any. Just little things, here and there, like anyone might have. Pale spots, like inverse freckles against smooth golden brown. 

“What?” she asks again. 

There isn’t a good answer to that, not really. A million years ago, he might have come up with something suave to diffuse the situation. Only it…it isn’t a situation, not really, and he isn’t that sort of person, and neither is she. “You don’t have any scars.”

She stares at him for a moment, and then laughs, a sharp blurt of sound. “Oh, I do, though. Hundreds, I expect. Don’t you?” 

“I…yes.”

“Okay, then.”

“Sorry,” John says again, for what seems like the thousandth time. “You’d mentioned being shot, and I thought…it might be something like…”

“What happened to you?” She smiles, but it’s sideways. Off. “Right. Should I show you my prosthetic leg?”

“You haven’t got one,” John says, because he knows she hasn’t. She moves like a person working with the original issue limbs. Oh. And he had seen her in a skirt. “I mean, technology isn’t _that_ good. Not yet.”

“True.” She shrugs. “Wish it was. I’ve got a friend who wouldn’t mind.” 

So has he. He had had. Still does, in theory, but he can’t. Can’t look any of them up, can’t apologise again for—

“Hey,” she says. “I didn’t mean it to be like that. I was lucky. Missed anything that mattered. Just a whistle off the side. I have a charmed life. What did happen to you?”

“My shoulder.” He rolls it, reflexively. There will always be a faint hitch, an interruption caused by fibrous tissue pulling over lumpen bone. “Half the time, I forget it’s there. The front is fine. Mostly fine. It’s the back. All chewed up and…well. It isn’t pretty. It went septic. That’s what sent me home.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes. When it’s cold. When it’s damp. If I do something stupid. There was nerve damage. It’s much better now.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

He says, “No. Not now. It did.”

He waits for her to say something about life going on, or scars not being important, or—hell, anything at all. She doesn’t. She just nods, and ties the sleeves of her hoodie around her waist. “Let’s go look at some popular predators.”

* * *

Sherlock feels the music before he hears it, smashing into his chest and rattling through his bones. It’s everything he’d expected and far, far worse.

He leans up against the aggressively polished stainless steel bar and waits for the excessively tanned young man behind it to notice him. When he does, he flashes his teeth in a practised smile. 

“What will it be?” 

“I seem to have misplaced my lighter.” 

The barman nods, and reaches behind himself for a plain black matchbook. “Anything else?” 

“Gin and tonic.”

“Right. You want to take that out on the smoking patio, that’ll be a plastic cup.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. “Where is it?”

The barman is pouring his drink, but he turns. “Out back, mate. Past the toilets.” 

Sherlock is passing a long line of booths in fashionably distressed (oh no, _reclaimed,_ surely) wood and sleek black leather when a voice hails him. A woman’s voice.

“Sherlock Holmes?” She’s short and stocky, dressed in a nearly-black navy linen jacket with contrasting striped cuffs folded up at the wrists. Her hair is cut in short chunky layers, ash and gold and grey mingled together in an eerily familiar blend. Her eyes are sharp, a blue so dark they nearly read as brown. The Watson nose is also there, albeit smaller.   

“Harriet Watson,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t need to see her convention badge to confirm this.

“Is John here?” Her shoulders are squared, an unconscious effort to seem bigger than she is. John used to do that. 

“No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Someone get murdered?”

“No.”

“Huh.” She smirks. “Really?”

Sherlock cuts her a scathing glance. “Really.”

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises.” She leans back, arms outspread (taking up space, claiming it as hers) and says, “Strange to finally meet you after all these years. I always thought it would be Johnny’s funeral. Or yours, maybe, but no one invited me to the last one. S’just as well.” She wrinkles her nose, and it’s disconcerting to see such a John-like expression on someone else’s face. “Join me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She taps at the upholstery with her right hand. “Sit.” The eye contact that accompanies the voice is unflinchingly direct, and that’s also familiar. 

Sherlock finds himself sliding into the booth opposite her. He has an irrational urge to flip his collar up, but he isn’t wearing the coat. It hadn’t seemed appropriate, under the circumstances. 

Harry looks him over for several seconds and then shakes her head. “No, really, though. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

She snorts. “Of course not. You’d rather explain me to myself.” She takes a sip of her drink (tonic, lime, and no gin—the straw is the wrong colour for that), and says, “I’ll get you started, shall I? Harry Watson. Marketing. Lesbian. Cat owner.” And after a pause, “Alcoholic. But you can tell him I’m still reformed.”

“Tech firm,” Sherlock says. “You’re in London for a conference. Two Siamese cats.”

“Yep.” She scowls down at her jacket. “Bloody cat hair. Just when you think you’ve caught it all.”

“A high maintenance breed. Vocal. Neurotic.” He narrows his eyes at her. “Companionship, or accountability?”

“Oh, please. They’re cats. Not people. Keep them fed, keep their trays clean, and they get me out of bed in the morning. Not a bad deal.”

“Easier than maintaining a human relationship.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait. “Yeah. So?”

“You’ve left your convention badge on. Convenient. A conversation-starter?”

“Regarding high-speed routers?” She laughs. “Yeah, no.”

 _No,_ Sherlock could persist. _It’s really about the uniform. Applied respectability. You’re meeting someone, and you think she’ll care._ He remembers the message engraved on John’s old mobile. He could mention that, mention the woman’s name (Clara). He doesn’t.

“So how’s my brother, then?” Harry asks.

“Don’t you know?”

She shrugs. “I read the blog. When he writes it. I haven’t seen him in…oh, a year or so. He did come to stay with me after you pulled your little stunt.”

“In Swindon.”

“That’s where I live, yes. I gave him some breathing room for a bit, and off he went. For the best, really. We don’t have much to say to one another. Not when there’s nothing for him to disapprove of.”

“The drinking you no longer do.”

“Not today.” She jingles the ice in her glass. “Not tomorrow. Next week? Who the fuck knows.”

Sherlock raises his own plastic cup, which has a different coloured straw. He drinks. The gin is crisp, the tonic more astringent than syrup. It isn’t at all what he remembers. “Yet you’re here. Why risk the temptation?”

“You’re a piece of work,” Harry says, but without much ire. “Thought I’d relive the bad old days a little. Remind myself how good it is not to get thoroughly hammered and go home with a girl who looks like she dressed out of a kitchen junk drawer. It’ isn’t much the same, though. It’s all gentrified now.”

“Is it?”

“Yep. No smoking. No drag queens in the ladies’ loo.”  She shrugs. “It’s early, yet.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“Of course I am. I want a drink. But mostly, I don’t. I can see at least three beautiful women at the bar, and I’m sat in a booth with a man who was an absolute shit to my brother. Probably still is. Five times a day, for all I know. Also, I want a fucking cigarette. I’m guessing you have some, because I smell smoke.”

“Yes.”

“So give me one, and I’ll buy you another drink. Or not. Up to you.”

Sherlock looks down at the empty glass on the table.  He does not remember finishing its contents. “A cigarette.”

"Yeah. Come on.”

He follows Harry through the dance floor (fogged with atomised propylene glycol and shifting beams of light, although very few people are actually dancing) and past the toilets. 

“Jesus,” Harry says. “Ten years ago, that sign said _Fags.”_

After the smoking ban, of course. There had been no such sign when Sherlock was here before. The floor plan, the bones of the building, are much the same as they used to be. 

The smoking patio is a net enclosure studded with violet fairy lights. That’s solidly different enough that Sherlock can put a halt to the reel slowly unspooling in his head. 

Two young men are huddled at the end of the enclosure. There’s a flash from a lighter and the acrid scent of burning cannabis. They put their heads together and share the smoke, mouth to mouth. 

“Shit,” Harry says, watching them with equal parts nostalgia and disgust. “Still smells like the nineties, doesn’t it? Fog machine, booze, cheap cologne, and everyone getting high.” She shakes her head. “Cigarette.”

Sherlock hands her one. 

“That’s the stuff,” she says, approvingly. “Full tar and foreign.” She pulls a cheap green plastic lighter out of her jacket pocket. “Here’s to Johnny.”

Sherlock says nothing, but lights his own, and lets the smoke scrape down his throat. It almost feels real. 

* * *

The tigers lounge half-hidden in the long grass, simultaneously sunlit and shadowed velvet hulks with massive heads and shuttered eyes. _Apex predators. 380 kilos. Solitary. Social. Fond of bad cologne._

That was an unexpected fact, delivered in a speech by an enthusiastic zookeeper. Sherlock would—

Would what? Find it interesting? _Only if a zoo visitor were mauled on account of too much Lynx body wash,_ John tells himself, although he isn’t sure that’s fair. What Sherlock would not understand at all is the way John feels now: hollow and blank and slowed down.  

A year ago, he might have stood here and found the tigers awe-inspiring, in a wholly uncomplicated way. Might have felt, perhaps, regret. They’re beautiful, primal, and strong. And they are, despite that, on the losing side of things. Losing territory, losing time. Is that what Sebastian Moran saw in them? He doesn’t know. He never will.

“Funny, isn’t it,” Marie says, and he’d almost forgotten she was there. “I know they’d rip my head off without a second thought, but I almost want to touch them.”

John makes a vague noise to show he’s listening.

“Don’t you?” she persists.  “A little?”

“I don’t…” The female tiger blinks open lazy, green-gold eyes, and they’re fixed, it feels, on him. John feels trapped, not because there is any danger: there isn’t. Not to him, and not to the tiger. Surely she’s better off here, far from poachers’ guns, but it abruptly occurs to him that no one ever asked her what she wanted. Perhaps it wouldn’t be this: a limited range, dead meat, and funny little humans performing unfathomable rituals with ropes and platforms and cheap cologne. Enrichment, they called it, and it’s a peculiar form of reparation, if it is one. “I…don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Marie says. “It’s weird. I know.”

“Do you?” 

Marie looks at him, slow and considering, not unlike the tiger, for all her eyes are brown. “It’s a long line of fuck-up, isn’t it? We’re meant to be afraid of them. We were. We still are. And now we’ve reduced them to this. We can congratulate ourselves for keeping them alive, now we’ve killed most of them. They’re here, and the most basic thing about them hasn’t changed. Me, I look, knowing they killed my ancestors in droves. That we killed them, too, when we could. And I still want to pet one. So do those kids. Makes me wonder who the barrier benefits most.”

“I…knew someone,” John says, awkwardly, because the word _friend_ scarcely seems appropriate. “I didn’t know it when he was alive, but he’d spent almost everything he earned on conservation schemes for them. Tigers, I mean. I don’t know why.”

“Does it matter?”

“No. I just…he’s gone now. I can’t ask him why. Why he cared so much. There are so many other questions I could ask, but this is the thing that just…sticks in my mind.”

“Because you thought you knew him, and you didn’t?”

“No,” John says. “Not that. I never did think that. He just…was. And he had, I thought, the rare gift of…simply letting other people exist, if that makes sense. We didn’t ask each other questions. I needed that, at the time. Everyone was always…it was when I thought Sherlock was dead, you see. Everyone had questions, or sympathy, or blame. It tears away at you, bit by bit. And even before that, it was like…like I didn’t exist as myself.  No one saw me as me. Not John Watson, a person, full stop. Not for years. He—this man—did, or I thought he did. I suppose I was wrong about that, too.” And he shouldn’t, god knows he really shouldn’t sound bitter about this, but he does. 

He stops Marie’s hand, travelling towards his own in misguided sympathy, where it’s clamped to the rail. “Don’t.”

“Why?” 

“Because you _did_ know him. The person.” John says it because he feels he must, but also he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. Not with the weight of the bag pulling at his shoulder, its contents—its mission—awaiting Marie’s cooperation.

“If you mean Sebastian,” Marie says, and her hand has settled two inches away from his own. It sits there, still and small. Absurd. “You’re only half right. Yes, I knew him. And I didn’t know him at all.”

“But you…” John can’t bring himself to apply a verb, because the first one that came to mind isn’t very good.

“Fucked him?” Marie supplies, bluntly. “Yes, and? Don’t romanticise it, John. I never did.” 

She’d said as much before. He still doesn’t know what to do with that.

“We talked, rarely about anything deeply personal, and sometimes we shagged. Then we didn’t. Maybe we were friends at one time, or what passed for that, with people like us. I don’t know.”

“But he came back,” John says, doggedly. “After everything. He looked you up. Protected you.”

“That was what he did.” Marie makes a face, and then spits out over the railing. “Sorry. Dry mouth. Sebastian was…that was his job. Our guardian angel with a gun. He kept us alive, and sometimes we saw him. He just….never truly stopped when the rest of us did. He didn’t have anything else.”

John hands her the water bottle.”Only I reckon most people who don’t have anything else don’t…do what he did.  Sorry. I mean…”

“I know what you mean,” she says. “We all know people who stick in the past. I see them all the time. They define themselves by what they were, sometimes just once for a moment. Sport, or marriage, or suffering, or…school. Something good, something bad. They don’t ever get beyond that one thing. They can’t. He wasn’t one of them. Not as such. That wasn’t what I meant. I suppose, given a different context, he’d be…well. Something just as strange, but more defensible. I said guardian angel, and…that’s the thing. They weren’t, strictly, _good_ as we understand it, were they? Angels. If you read about the Christian ones, they weren’t. There’s something very dangerous about being so apart from humanity. Watching us from far away. But I think he felt we belonged to him, after everything. _The bastard children of the empire,_ he used to say.”

John just looks at her. 

She shrugs. “What? He wasn’t wrong.”

“Why? Because you didn’t exist?”

“Because we were, all of us, exactly as British as the empire.”

“Oh.” John thinks about it. “Which was, I suppose, just that little bit of Britain and…god. Loads of other places.” 

“Yes. Exactly that. You said you’d seen things. Documents. Any photographs?”

He frowns. “There was the one group photo. He…Sebastian wasn’t in it. Joe had circled himself. You were there.”

“What else did you see?”

“David Okoro. Some other people who came up in the files. I couldn’t quite make out where you were when it was taken. Could be anywhere. Why?”

“So you saw us all together. Our faces. What did you think of that?”

Pretty much what he’s think of any military group photo. “Not everyone was looking at the camera. You were in full kit, I think? Some people were, some people weren’t. It was informal, really. You looked…comfortable with each other.”

“Anything strike you as odd?”

“I don’t….” He frowns. “I knew _what_ you were. That makes it odd, I suppose. I was surprised to see a record of the Pioneers. Proof that you were ever anywhere. I’m not…like that. I don’t know where you were, but surely someone could have guessed. Known, even.” 

Marie smiles a bit at this, the faint sun lines around her eyes appearing as they sometimes, startlingly do. “Oh, John,” she says. “You didn’t see it at all.”

“See what?” Honestly, he’s beginning to feel like he’s back in school. Or, more realistically, like he’s hovering over a crime scene, and Sherlock is waxing professorial over something he finds painfully obvious himself. 

Marie seems to catch some of that. “No. It’s okay. You weren’t looking for it. Why would you? The thing is, none of us were white. All of us British, but none of us…Anglo-Saxon. David’s people were Nigerian, originally. Most of us were…odds and ends. Even Sebastian. Any one of us could have been from any number of places. Just never where we were, not quite. Clever, if you think about it.”

“Oh god,” John says. He really hadn’t seen it, and he doesn’t know what to make of that at all.

“They knew what they were doing. Hence the name, I imagine. Bangalore. Really! Just another place that used to be part of the empire. Us, the bastard children of it, cleaning up after the mess. Quietly. Unobtrusively.” She raises her chin. “We weren’t stupid. We twigged to it pretty early on.”

“That seems…awfully fucked up.”

“Oh it was. But let’s be honest: it was also awfully practical.” 

John chews at his lip, realising too late that he’s torn a strip off his skin. Awkward, but no more awkward than this. “I just…you know. Sorry. I don’t have anything useful to say, here, do I?”

“John,” Marie says again. “You don’t have to. Really. It was all fucked up. That was just…a drop in the pond. When this…when it all comes out, this isn’t the part that matters. It’s what we did. What they had us do. What we went along with, really. Because I’m not…absolving us. I can’t.”

“Why not?” John says it fiercely. “You were doing what you were told, and you did it because you thought it mattered. You were stopping worse things. Horrible things.”

“We thought so. But at least once, we were wrong. Maybe more than once. It just…can’t happen again. That’s why we’re here, yes? You and me. And it’s been…shit. I mean, not shit.” She laughs a little. “That’s life, isn’t it? I’ve had a good time, today. Thank you for that. But in a little while, you’re going to give me that bag, and I’m…going to do what we came here for. And the next time I see you, that’s an end to it.”

“Is it?” John feels a strange sense of loss. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know whether he will see her again. Mycroft might send someone else to collect the tapes; he wouldn’t be surprised, not really. “Could we…maybe have a look at the fruit bats first?”

“For your landlady?” 

“No,” John says. “For me.”

* * *

 

Harry reaches into her tidy blazer pocket for a Polo, and Sherlock says “Too late. You already smell of smoke. I would advise against it. Clara will think it’s something worse.”

“No secrets here.” Harry watches his smoke drift out over the sparsely populated cafe tables, and lets her hand fall away. “I mean, it’s clever and all, what you do. Prolly makes a lot of people angry.” 

“Yes.”

“Do people ever hit you?”

“Sometimes.”

She gives him a sidelong glance. “Johnny always did love a good fight.”

“How many people did he fight on your behalf?”

She avoids his eyes, stubbing out her cigarette against the wall. “I lost count. You still haven’t said why you’re here. You weren’t looking for me, were you?”

“Why on earth should I look for you?”

“Dunno. Why would anyone want to meet their best friend’s rotten little sister?”

“I have an older brother,” Sherlock says. “No one particularly enjoys meeting him.”

“Horrible, is he?”

“Quite.”

“John isn’t horrible,” Harry says. “He never really was. It’s just that he remembers all the worst things about me. He worries, and he shouts. Not so much now. I expect he has you for that.”

“The worry, or the shouting?”

“Both.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He grinds his own cigarette down to the filter. Then he lights another.

“So what is it, then? Want to see the gays in their natural environment? This isn’t it.”

“No?”

“Not now. Maybe it wasn’t, even then. But things have changed, haven’t they?”

There’s really no reason to deny it. “I used to do lines of coke off the sinks in the men’s toilets,” Sherlock says, remotely.

“Jesus.”

He can see it all now, as it used to be: polished metal counters dusted with fine white powder. He can smell it, as well: the pervasive stench of artificially floral urinal cakes augmented with the acrid tang of human sweat.

He retches, throat spasming against the onslaught of memory. “It wasn’t…” 

“Wasn’t what?” 

He slams back into himself, cool and clean, at the sound of her voice. “Like that. I _told_ you.” His own voice is falling away, becoming tinny. “I never did anything I didn’t…”

Harry looks at him, her mouth frozen in shock, but it isn’t Harry. It never was. Just a photograph and a dash of guesswork. 

 _I found your simulacrum of Miss Hooper much more convincing,_ Mycroft says, although he isn’t there. _But then, you actually_ know _her._

“I’d never met Harry. There were bound to be inaccuracies.” Funny, then, that the club itself had seemed so real, just now. So updated. 

Oh. But he had also been there in 2007, with Lestrade. 

 _Ah, yes. The regrettable incident with the coat check boy,_ Mycroft agrees. _Funny you didn’t remember anything then. The human mind is a mysterious property. Do you think you’ve done yourself permanent damage?_

“Shut up.”

_The thing is, dear brother, I’m beginning to fear you’re losing your mind. Barts and a corpse, the eyes—what were those?—and now this. You’ve become quite unhinged. I wonder what, if anything, is real. You ought to verify something. Prove you’re still sane._

Sherlock grinds his teeth and reaches for his phone. _Does Harry have two cats?_ he types, surprisingly badly.

Thirty seconds later, a response appears. **Not that I know of.**  

 _Oh, that’s_ very _good,_ Mycroft says, derisively. _Cats, of all possible details._

“Shut up,” Sherlock whispers, but then a second message appears. 

**Are you at home? i’ve been walking all day and could really murder some Chinese later.**

_No. Park. Home soon._  
****

Sherlock stumbles getting up; one leg has gone dead. Not very surprising, under the circumstances. He’d been here for hours.

 _So that’s it, then. Home to John, status all quo, nothing wrong at all,_ Mycroft says. 

“Nothing is.”

_No? Oh, that’s good, then. Must be lovely to feel so certain._

Sherlock wants to punch him, but…he isn’t there. Just two young mothers in synchronised Boden, pushing prams up the path. And a bag lady, glancing at him sidelong from the other end of the park bench he’s just abandoned.

Come to think of it, he knows her. He fumbles in his coat pocket for the (yes, unsmoked) cigarettes. Old Liz is a foul-smelling schizophrenic, but he’s never held that against her. At the moment, he’s positively pleased to see her.

“All right?” 

“Yes. Fine.”

“Only you was talking to yourself.”

“Was I.” He hands her the packet. “Merry Christmas.”

“It isn’t,” she says, sternly. She accepts them, but with an air of deep suspicion. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing. I made a mistake.”

She mutters to herself, but tucks them away into her faded green monstrosity of a rucksack. “You’ll want to get home, before They comes out.”

“They?”

“Them as skinned our Kenny. Down by the swans, they were. You’ll remember.” 

He does. Then he reminds her where They went, because that’s the bit _she_ never remembers. Unlike the other demons that plague Old Liz, They had been perfectly real. Corporeal enough for prison, at any rate.

 _There’s a lesson in that_ , Mycroft says, severely. _I expect you’ll see it eventually._

“Shut up,” Sherlock says. “Not you,” he says to Old Liz.

He watches her stump away down the path, knotted hair bobbing in the wind. So, for a fraction of a second, does his brother. 

“I’m not mad,” Sherlock tells his flickering outline. “It was an intellectual exercise.”

_Can you honestly trust yourself to see the difference?_

“Yes.” Sherlock finds himself gripping the back of the bench. It’s hard and cold, weathered wood and flaking iron. “This is real. You are not.”

_No? What walks on six legs in the afternoon?_

Mycroft’s turn as the Sphinx is interrupted by the sound of approaching feet, halting and wholly unwelcome. He’d certainly chosen a hell of a spot for his…whatever this is.

 _Breakdown_ , Mycroft suggests, never helpful. _It may look like a spade, but let’s call it what it is: the full garden shed._

“Fuck off,” Sherlock hisses, _sotto voce._

 _Oh, god forbid he_ hear _you. I_ was _going to congratulate you on the unprecedented relevance of this hallucination. Now I don’t think I will._

It’s a valid point, but Sherlock stands in silence as the beautifully accurate phantom of Victor Trevor arrives and sends his imaginary dog—Penelope for verisimilitude, and not, as he might have expected, Gladys—to wait beside the bench where he first sits and then bends down to untie one badly scuffed shoe. 

Really, though, the pebble he tips out onto the ground is a pointlessly prosaic detail—like the dog, audibly panting, or the heather grey of Victor’s sock, going threadbare at the heel. Why should his jacket be missing a button from the sleeve, or bag at the elbows the way it does?

Victor would prefer to make a better showing, but apparently Sherlock isn’t willing to grant him the advantage, here in his head. Not that he’s using it; silent where he ought to be speaking. He’s gone to all the bother of summoning Victor up, so he really ought to make use of the situation. Solve the problem of his persistence. Exorcise him. 

Yes, he has control over this version of Victor, who is realistic in a way the False House version never was. All he has to do is start a dialogue. But Sherlock doesn’t. He just observes, as Victor drops the shoe and digs his fingers into the bruised arch of his foot with a highly plausible groan.

Penelope whines in response, and Victor slumps backwards into the bench, arms outstretched and hands dangerously close to brushing Sherlock where he stands. “Don’t you start,” he says to her. “I’m convinced you run on clockwork. We’re out of the noise. I might as well.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. “Ned.”    

Sherlock can hear it dialling. A man’s voice answers, although he can’t distinguish any words.

“No, it’s—yes. I know. That’s not—please. Just listen,” Victor says.

The man on the other end of the line continues to speak, and Victor waits him out. “Yes. And I _am_ sorry. Whatever you think, I truly am.”

Whatever the response is, it makes him laugh. “No! I—why would you think that? I just…look. I know it’s asking a lot, but I was hoping you could do me a favour.” 

The voice on the other end is increasingly animated, but Sherlock still can’t make out any definite words. Victor sighs. “No, I really don’t care about any of that. Do what you like. It’s only money. No. It’s Penelope. You miss her, don’t you? I know she misses you. I was hoping you could….well. Look after her for a bit. I could have her boarded, but she’d be miserable. Think of it as…minimising the damage.” 

The voice starts in again, and Victor winces. “God, no. Nothing so dramatic. I’m hardly going to drown myself in the bath. Not my style.”

Penelope whines, and Victor leans down to pat her head. “No, love. No one’s having a bath. I’m talking to your Uncle Ned.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Really, of all the things his subconscious could choose to do. This is positively mawkish. What’s the point?

Victor is still talking. “….you know what a bother it was getting her out of the country. I’d just rather not go through all that again. Not if she could be with you.” There’s a pause, and Victor’s voice becomes frosty. “Oh. Did you. I don’t need you going through my post. That should have come to me. No, I hadn’t said, because I’ve only just heard.  Funding cuts. No, I didn’t _do_ anything. And it doesn’t matter. I’ve got something else. I have. I…don’t know for certain that it will come to anything. But if it does, yes. I would prefer that.”

The voice on the other end is much quieter now. Victor clears his throat. “Yes. Well. Thanks for that. Consider my feet fully landed upon, as ever. You can absolve yourself of all responsibility now. Only I wish you would consider taking her. You always did like her best.”

Whatever the other man says, it makes Victor laugh. “Oh, please. You know you did. And thank goodness for that. Dogs have a sort of mystic power, don’t they? So take her out in the parks. You’ll meet any number of men that way. More women, perhaps, but that’s probability for you. At any rate, you’ll have a good story. _Oh, Penny? She belonged to my boyfriend. I got her in the divorce. Also, I have a French restaurant, and a huge garden._ You’ll have to beat them away with a stick. Whichever they might be. Lie if you want to.”

There’s more talk, and Victor sighs, again. “No. I don’t think that, Ned. It was never that. But you weren’t happy, and neither was I. I have never held that against you. Never. I’m just saying it’s an option.” He strokes Penelope’s head, and says, very quietly, “No, that’s not what I’m doing. It isn’t. I just…need to be someone else. For a time. Can you take her? Good. Tuesday. I’ll call first.” He takes the phone away from his face and says “End call.”  

And Sherlock realises, quite abruptly, that this _is_ Victor, that this version of him is real. He always was. He can say something now, or he can go. He goes, quickly, before Victor can remark upon the sound of his feet. When he hits the main road, he cannot help but glance behind him from time to time. 

The long black car never does arrive.

 


End file.
